How My Perfect Life Was Inverted I
by The Flying Breadstick
Summary: This is a typical story about a typical woman who travels back in time in a most typical manner, encounters a most typical drag queen, and has a most typical adventure with a most typical pirate and his most typical crew. Rated to be safe.
1. A Cure For Depression

**Author's Note:** Second fic ever. This idea's been at the back of my head for a while now. It's probably already been done, but what the hell. This part will probably be boring, sappy, maybe even some slight angst. But the rest of the story's nowhere NEAR as serious as this, I swear. Just read chap. 1 before you judge. 

**Disclaimer:** For the ENTIRE story, I'm only gonna say this once: I. Own. Nothing. I don't even have a sane mind to call my own.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted **

**_Prologue:_**_ A Cure for Depression_

Sierra wasn't a girl that got attached easily. Needless to say, she wasn't big on commitment. Meaning that when it came to her love life, she…well, let's just say she wasn't the most self-respecting of women.

_"The technical term is 'loose',"_ Janelle had said rather bluntly.

She wouldn't class herself as 'loose'. It all boiled down to three magical words where her social life was concerned: She. Was. Sierra. She didn't get attached, she didn't bond, didn't unify, didn't connect, didn't 'amalgamate', as Janelle liked to put it. And yet…it doesn't matter. Nothing really does anymore. Not to her.

The point was, she was _her_. And her wasn't perfect. It was like her father had said to her that blessed February evening several years ago: _"You're nothing. You're worthless."_

And it was true; she was just a twenty-seven year old college-dropout-turned-romance-novelist—a fact she was trying constantly to forget. She lay sprawled out on her sofa that doubled as a bed in her small cramped flat in London's notorious East End, staring at the blank TV screen. Of course it'll be blank; it _was_ off. Nevertheless, the female continued to stare. Staring so hard, yet unseeing. Just…remembering. Her favourite memories; the ones where she'd gone to her favourite place on earth for just a few months. The months when she'd been truly happy, truly herself. Truly _free_.

Freedom; that's what it's all about, isn't it? It's what _he's_ all about.

Sierra prevented herself from laughing aloud. Three years ago, she would have thought that a girl sitting around thinking about some bloke was a pathetic girl not worth knowing. But three years ago, she hadn't known Captain Jack Sparrow. Yet.

Sierra thought back to a previous conversation with what was probably her one true friend; American marine archaeologist Janelle Anderson-Geller: _"Let's say this _did_ happen, OK? Let's pretend, for one moment, that this isn't one big hallucination resulting from too much time in the sun and freshly-brewed Caribbean-style rum cocktail and being like, gee, I dunno, _shipwrecked_ or whatever for more than half a year. So what are you gonna do about it?"_

What was she going to do about it?

"Yeah, you can't just sit around all depressed and lovesick-teen-angst 'til the end of your days. You have to release all your emotions—let it all out."

Great. Um, how?

"It's different depending on what type of person you are and your talents. Musicians play all their feelings out in their music; martial artists vent out their frustration via jujitsu. Well, I've read all that stuff on your laptop. The non-romance novels you wrote, the ones you hadn't try to publish, the ones you don't get paid for? They're really good. So write about it."

And exactly where did she receive all her ancient wisdom? Janelle was a marine excavator or whatever.

"My mum is a professional therapist."

That was more or less two years ago, and had she heeded Janelle's well-meaning advice? No, of course not. She'd made a show of being her normal happy, carefree, carousing self to assure everyone she was fine. Why did she put on a show instead of letting her true emotions show? Because she was Sierra, and Sierra was stubborn. Sierra, she remembered, is also another word for 'mountain range'. She was pretty certain that if she had self-esteem issues, the knowledge of her namesake definitely wouldn't help. The actual meaning of the Spanish name, her mother had said, meant 'black'. Sierra. Black. Sierra black. Black Sierra. Black sheep. How apt.

I'll write, she decided, finally heeding Janelle's advice. If I can't be with Jack, the least I could do is make sure that people remember him again. When she'd returned from her 'trip', Sierra had lost what little was left of her sanity, going through every archive, every record listed in maritime history she could get her hands on. And no Jack. But he wasn't a figment of her imagination; there was one account of the Black Pearl attacking Port Royal and kidnapping an Elizabeth Swann, Port Royal's governor's daughter of the time.

So the ship was real. Which meant Jack was. He just wasn't there.

Janelle had comforted her then, patting her back when she couldn't find any traces of Jack and had broke down: "Look, I don't know who you're looking for, or why they're so important to you, but not all criminals were recorded in history."

Huh?

"All official records were kept in London. Remember, most of the Caribbean still belonged to England, France, Spain or Portugal during this time period? Well, they were still governed by those countries, meaning all official records were transported to the capital of the country by boat. It's possible some never made it, getting caught in a storm or something. The next wreck I'm working on is just northeast of the Bahamas, travelling to London. That could have the record you're looking for."

She wasn't too keen on history, so she just put her faith in Janelle and decided to believe she was right. But of course, her lacking interest of history had changed after her little escapade.

Forcing herself to stand, Sierra made her way to the small kitchen table just behind the tattered sofa in her modest abode where her treasured laptop sat, worn and battered from her travels. She used it to write articles for whoever she could; tabloids, broadsheets, teen magazines, etc. It also hosted her embarrassing collection of romance novels, which she'd deleted as soon as they were published. It was also her link to the outside world, as her phone line had been cut off (which would you choose: electricity or phone?). More importantly, to Janelle, who was still working on that shipwreck near the Bahamas. Apparently, the wreck was more fragile than she and her team had originally believed, so it had to be handled delicately, thus taking longer.

Flicking it open, Sierra hit the power button. As it started up, Sierra thought about how she would get her publishers to go for it. My first novel will be my autobiography, she thought wryly to herself, the ghost of a smile dancing across her lips. Because I wasn't actually alive until I met Jack Sparrow.

And she began to type.

¤

When you fall in love with the wrong guy, it can only end in tears. When I fell for Kevin Howard, I had unknowingly set in action events that would eventually spiral out of my control. I was nineteen, and when I fell under Kevin's spell I, like so many others before me, thought it was the start of something beautiful. Well, unlike others, it was, for me. More than even I, an infatuated young woman with the brain capacity of a fifteen-year-old lovesick schoolgirl who spends all her free time fantasizing about her perfect life (which included the perfect relationship), had even dreamed was possible. It had started something beautiful; just not in the traditional or conventional sense of the phrase.

It had also started my inevitable downfall from high-flying university student to low drunken party girl in the space of a month. Which, in turn, resulted in my expulsion from Oxford. Resulting in my disownment from my family, which led to a life of hell balancing several minimum-wage jobs and thousands of debts. Well, when you hit rock bottom, there's nowhere to go but up. And I soared, higher than I'd ever been in my entire life. Than I'd ever thought was humanly possible.

If I could turn back time and 'mend the error of my ways', I most definitely would not. Any rational person could claim that if I had fixed my life so that the one catastrophic event which caused my life to plummet, I'd be so much more respected, richer, and probably dating a charming, successful businessman.

So evidently, I wouldn't change a single thing. And it's all because of the one sole fact that if I hadn't given my heart to a man that couldn't possibly love me back, I'd never have experienced heartbreak so vividly and excruciatingly as I had. Therefore, I'd never have been renounced by my family for getting kicked out of school simply for attempting to drown out my sorrows. Subsequently, then I'd never have been given an apologetic tour around the world. Which meant I'd have never met Jack Sparrow.

**AN:** Bear in mind, this is just a (very lengthy) prologue. First chapter: less sappy, more happy. Hold back judgement 'til you've read chap. 1. Please?


	2. The Fundamental Crisis

**~*~ How My Perfect Life Was Inverted ~*~**

**_Chapter One:_**_ The Fundamental Crisis_

When I was accepted into Oxford University at sixteen, I meant to pack my bags, rent an _apartment_—I don't like the idea of sharing a dorm room, I need _my_ space—settle down, and attend lectures and study. _Hard_. Like the dutiful youngest daughter of a multi-million real estate/high-flying barrister union was supposed to. Of course, I've always been a party girl at heart—seriously, I can give Jordan herself a run for her money—so _that_ didn't exactly go according to plan. But I was seriously committed at the beginning; I did manage to stay there for about four and a half _years_. That's what I call commitment.

And then I slipped back into my teenage party girl persona.

Although, you could argue—and this I did to no end when confronted by my way-too-successful parents—that I had a lot of pressure on me. Let me elaborate; my oldest brother, Leonardo, was twenty-nine, a successful solicitor, and engaged to that topless chick on page 3 of _The Sun_ daily tabloid. Not that he minded—if I recall, that was how they first met; he and his friends crashing a modelling agency's exclusive debonair party to commemorate a quarter-century of establishment (or something along those lines) so they can check out all the surgically-enhanced sluts. He has hair so black it was like some ultra-dark shade of blue, black eyes, perfectly tanned skin, and sculpted abs I really wish he'll stop _flaunting_. And that's not all he flaunts, let me tell you. He looked like the male clone of our Spanish-Italian barrister of a mother, had a brain capacity that rivalled Einstein's, and could speak at least five languages fluently. He was the perfect son.

Naturally I loathed every fibre of his being.

Then there's twenty-seven-year-old Christa, my older sister. Complete opposite of Big Bro Leo, making her the carbon copy of our father. She has white-blonde hair and clear, crystal blue eyes, a feature we both share. Her skin's pale, like Daddy's, and if it had been on any one else, you'd have thought they were terminally ill or suffering from lack of blood, but _she_ managed to pull it off, being the daughter of Alexander and Juliana de Victoire and all. She was also smart and well behaved and managed to score a job as secretary to some famous political figure (_nothing_, she assures, to do with her long legs, great rack, and so-thin-almost-anorexic figure). Perfect, like Leo.

Apparently that was a trait that skips every third child, because then there was _me_.

Call me an arrogant, stuck-up cow, but I _do_ look good, compared with the average person you'll meet in the street. Beautiful, gorgeous even, compared to the 'normal' citizens of the world. But compared to my immediate family, I'm _nothing_; plain, almost repulsive when compared with my supermodel mother or Miss World sister. My parents couldn't understand it; they're both the most gorgeous people each had ever seen, so the least I could do was make men's hearts stop and jaws drop when I walked into a room (something that, once again, my relations do with absolutely _no_ effort on their part). But _no_, I can't even manage something as 'simple' as _that_. Nor could I ace all my classes without breaking a sweat _and_ come out as top student of my school (guess which two siblings could?). No, I came fourth or fifth. Needless to say whether that was satisfactory or not.

So when I got into Oxford, probably the best university in all of Britain, I was _euphoric_. That's an understatement. Finally, something I could actually compete with my completely faultless, absolutely _perfect_ siblings—and win. Both of _them_ (and I don't need to mention who 'them' are), like me, had Oxford down as their first choice. _Unlike_ me, _they_ got rejected. If I remember, I did a very hyper—not to mention _unique_—dance; first, my bedroom, where I was hoping to handle my rejection alone and maintain _some_ dignity, then out the door, down the winding staircase, and into our indoor pool, in full view of most of our servants and security cameras. So much for dignity. If I remember rightly, said dance ended with me jumping in aforementioned pool. A grand finale. It was probably the only thing that made my parents proud, sister envious, and brother wake up and take notice of his youngest baby sister.

Of course, it couldn't last. I decided that I'd follow the path of my maternal parent and become a barrister. But then, three years in, I fell in love with acting. Or more precisely, the young, hot new theatrical arts teacher, Kevin Howard. I'd first saw him trying to navigate himself through the maze that was Oxford, and I'd actually had a platonic friendship with him before my feelings actually developed into anything _serious_. He was sweet and kind and nice to everyone, with a great sense of humour and brains as well as brawns. He was really, truly, very much the most gorgeous guy I'd ever seen (with the exception of Leo, but that's just _wrong_), with golden brown hair and forest green eyes. He was also really, truly, very much homosexual. But I only discovered that minor fact _after_ I'd signed up for his classes, leaving right in the middle of my course. And I couldn't switch back.

With all hope of Kevin falling madly in love with me efficiently compacted, I had no choice but to pay attention to the actual lectures. And frankly, without my fantasies of Kevin ordering the class to leave, except me, and then sweeping me up in his arms (amongst _other_ things), they were _dull_. Boring, tedious, monotonous, repetitive, wearisome, uninteresting. _Uninspiring_. Which was really the whole point of the syllabus, wasn't it?

Theatre never really was my thing. So I gradually stopped attending lectures all together, spending my days shopping, lurking, lounging, and/or occasionally hitting the gym, and my nights clubbing, partying, and more often than not smashed thanks to the wonderful invention called alcohol (mainly the brands Smirnoff Ice, WKD Vodka, and Bacardi Rum). Eventually, I 'fell in with the wrong crowd'.

A year and a half later, Oxford kicked me out. Not that I noticed.

**~*~**

**AN:** Ok, first off, British society cultural reference thingy:

Jordan: glamour model, known for all-night partying and obviously fake, overlarge chest.

The Sun: tabloid newspaper, known for always having nude models on p.3 (including the one above).

 Like it, loathe it? In either case, please review! Oh, and if you're gonna flame me, bare in mind I'll continue regardless of insults and death threats. If you're gonna (hopefully) praise me, I _might_ just update faster!


	3. Alone

** How My Perfect Life Was Inverted **

**_Chapter Two:_**_ Alone_

I'm so glad God had the decency to create a state of mind known only as inebriation; it's nice to know that He knows that all those Seven Deadly Sins and Ten Commandments were too much for a human to bear sober. Or, as I like to believe, perhaps liquor was invented so I won't really have to actually _deal_ with being disowned and getting kicked out of my home and facing life in an all-new social class. Most of it passed by in a pleasant yet excruciating painful migraine-wise of a phase.

What my alcohol-engulfed mind can remember of the night my father disowned me allows me to deduct that it went a little something like this:

I'd been simply enjoying my latest playmate. Actually, 'enjoy' wouldn't actually be the word I'll use; 'testing to see if I'd learnt anything in those acting classes' would be more appropriate. And if his complete lack of showing insult or alarm was anything to go by, I'd learnt a _lot_.

My father had come bursting into my abode, screaming for me to come and face him. After grabbing a soft white dressing gown I complied, unable to fight off most signs of drunkenness.

If you ever get into trouble educationally speaking and get kicked out or something, don't ever confront your parents drunk. Trust me; I found out the hard way.

It took me about a month to realize that I was expelled. Actually, I was already well aware of the fact; it just hadn't sunk in until _mon père_ had literally knocked my door down at the most unholy of hours of the night/early morning. Which coincided with my little private meeting with my then boy-toy, rugby player Lewis. I'm not sure if that was his first or last name, and I didn't much care to ask. I was also, as they say, completely pissed. I don't think that helped Daddy's foul temper.

"One month, Sierra!" Alex de Victoire yelled by way of greeting. "You could have contacted us somehow and inform your mother and I yourself!"

Bare in mind I was completely inebriated: "I didn't want you to find out like this," I said, by way of apology. I might have managed to salvage my deteriorating relationship with my father if I'd just left it at that. However… "I was hoping you wouldn't find out at all." Liquor: in most cases, it slows down a person's reflexes, makes them high, giddy, dizzy, happy. So naturally, it was my own personal truth serum.

"How long were you planning on living like this, off my wallet, in this apartment?" He continued, pacing agitatedly, my words barely registering. "How long did you think you could _lie_ to me, Sierra?"

Oh. My. God. Is this starting to sound anything like a cheesy daytime soap opera to anyone else? You know, the basic storyline where the girl's having an affair with her best friend's boyfriend or something and it all blows up in her face? If this was a daytime TV drama, I would have burst into tears, letting all of my emotions flow, and start yelling at him whilst simultaneously sobbing my broken little heart out; let him know how I'd tried so hard to be perfect, to fit in, and how the one guy I'd fallen for had ripped my heart to shreds and grinded the ribbons until they were dust. And then he'll look at me in understanding and realization and put his arms around me and comfort me like when I was seven years old and my pet budgie had died, and say he was sorry and ask for forgiveness and then break down as well. Or, alternately, he'll just look through me with those cold blue eyes I'd inherited and say that it was my fault and simply turn around and walk away, leaving a cliff-hanger that will conclude in a few future episodes.

But this was real life, and my father had simply bought me a beautiful porcelain doll to add to my extensive collection instead of offering any reconciliation about the departed bird, and at that very moment Lewis poked his head around my bedroom door, dirty-blond hair tousled by sleeping and…other activities we'd performed. "Hey, Vic…twa," he slurred, "you gonna come back in here or…" He paused, shaking his messy hair to gather his slow, sparse thoughts. "…Get me a beer," he finished slowly. I could have died then and there; I'm pretty certain my heart had stopped beating completely.

Two things you don't ever want your parents to know about concerning your social life: sex and alcohol. And this dolt had just revealed to my father I was heavily embroiled in both.

Holy. Shit.

But Lu-Lu didn't stop there. As his brown eyes settled on my father, who was just staring at him in mute rage and disgust, he said, almost protectively but was probably possessively, "Dude, aren't you a little senile to be banging college girls?" His brains were going to be redecorating my bedroom walls in about five minutes. Assuming he had any. It got worst: "If you are, you'll have to wait your turn." He blinked stupidly. Why, oh God _why_, did I choose _him_? He wasn't even that good in the sack; more often than not, I was faking. "I waited three and a half weeks to get with that," he indicated with a limp hand. "Join the waiting list." There's a waiting list? I had no idea my lack of virtue and self-respect had become so renowned. A small part of me took time out to glow with pride at my looseness; my lips parted in the smallest smile in the history of humanity. I actually felt a little flattered; if there's a waiting list of guys wanting to sleep with you, you must have something going for you. Or maybe they're all really horny and can't get laid. Whatever.

Yes, we've been through this before: I. Was. Wasted.

Anyway, the point was, _my_ brains were going to be splattering all over the kitchen walls, if Papa's expression was anything to go by. He said, in an almost calm, collected manner, "I am not here for _that_." He looked at Lewis in revulsion, and who can blame him? "I don't wish to have any relationship of that nature with my—this woman." I should have known straight away; he'd as good as thrown me out onto the streets already. It was inevitable.

"Yeah, right," Lewis snorted. "You're not gay, are you?" Told you I was pretty; now I remember why I took him home. Ego-booster; girls need them too. "Oh wait," he squinted. "You're not the college professor lucky enough to screw her first, are you?"

My father looked at me for what was probably a second but what felt like eons. Not _through_ me, but _at_ me, like I'd always wanted. But not like this, not with repugnance and antipathy and shame and disappointment in those cold blue eyes. And when he spoke, he froze me; literally turned my insides into ice. Five little words, but each packed with huge meaning: "Stay away from my family." _My family_. The words reverberated in my ears, my head. _His_ family, not ours. That snapped me back too soon to the cruel, harsh world of sobriety I had escaped from.

Lewis had started to talk, but I ignored him, racing through the door and along the cold, carpeted hall of floor 8, the rug soft on my bare feet. I was wearing only a dressing gown, but it was late and everyone was tucked safely in their little beds and I didn't even care anyway. My father was waiting for the elevator, the faint light from the lamps lining the corridor casting an orange glow on his white hair.

"Father?" I asked cautiously, timidly, like I was five years old again and was being taught to call my parents 'Mother and Father' instead of 'Mummy and Daddy'. "Daddy?" And finally, "Alex?" It felt so wrong, so unnatural, and tears pricked my eyes just from saying that one word. It sealed my fate.

"Who are you," he said softly, monotonously, "to address me by my given name?"

"I'm your daughter," I said uncertainly. _Was_ I his daughter? Had I gone too far? Was it inappropriate of me to assume we were still related, that blood ties mattered to him?

"No." He answered my unspoken questions. "Sierra de Victoire was my daughter. She wasn't perfect," I could hear the disappointment in his tone, "but she _was_ ethical and respectable." Whose father was he?

"Which Sierra are we talking about here?" I snapped, covering my grief and uncertainty with (hopefully self-righteous-sounding) anger. "Where have _you_ been the past twenty years? Which girl did _you_ raise? Because if memory serves correctly, you just laid me off on the servants and nannies and babysitters for my entire life! Something you and Mother _never_ did to Chris and Leo!" I was yelling now, my voice steadily rising in volume. Let the neighbours wake up, let me get fined or whatever for disturbing the peace. All my life I'd worked so hard to be perfect, to be able to redefine the meaning of 'protégé', and that meant being anything _but_ emotional and temperamental. But it was all coming out now, all my years of toiling to be the 'good girl' coming undone as I completely lost control.

And I loved it. There were two Sierra de Victoire's, and most of my life they'd clashed, one always coming out more dominant than the other (and you can guess which). Two people so different were unable to co-exist. But finally, after two decades and six months, one had finally emerged as the victor. That girl, that naïve creature that wanted nothing more than to please her parents, the Sierra _he_ was talking about was dead now, evanesced ever since that Theatrical Arts fiasco, and I'd taken her place. And I liked this new girl, who compared to the other was so outspoken, so independent, so _alive_ and _human_.

_Mr _Alex de Victoire seemed to think differently. Stepping into the lift, he kept his thumb on the button that kept the doors open, regarding me coldly. "But she's gone now," he continued, my explosion unheard. Does anyone _ever_ listen to me? "The Sierra I knew, the Sierra I liked, she's dead. And you've killed her." He regarded me like I was some nauseating parasite. "The girl I liked is gone, and _you've_ taken her place." Great minds think too bloody much alike for my taste. "You: a whore and an alcoholic, a filthy tramp, you can't even begin to compare to her. You're nothing. You're worthless. You don't even matter; you're not worth a second look. You're not worth my respect, nor my regarding your very existence."

The doors slid closed and I collapsed; my legs crumbled from underneath me. I'd never had such horrible things said to me in my life. What was worse, it was the truth. I stared at the cream carpet, my vision blurring. A few minutes later, I heard the heavy, clumsy footsteps of Lewis, now fully dressed, coming up behind me. They halted as he stood watching me. And then Lewis walked away, took the elevator, and just…left. Not even an 'I hope you don't mind all your booze is gone' or 'Same time next week?' But I hadn't expected comfort; I knew better than that. But I hadn't expected him to just _go_ either. And he did: he left. Left me to deal with my anger and grief and pain and self-loathing. He left me; broken and defeated in the corridor, he left me.

He left me alone. That was the beginning, one could go so far as to say it was the welcoming introduction, of my life as a living hell.

****

**AN:** Oh God, Alex is so evil. He was just meant to be the overprotective misunderstanding father who thought he was doing the 'right' thing by throwing her out on the street so she'll be independent or whatever, but he's just evil! shrugs Well, there had to be an antagonist at some point…why not the dad? And you just KNOW it's gonna come back and bite him in the ass one day (preferably the next chapter). I don't seem to have any control over my writing; this was supposed to be positive and uplifting or whatever…have to work on that.

**VagrantCandy:** Seriously, you think it's different? Really? I have this knack of coming up with an 'original' idea, and then I go on the Net and it turns out a million other people had already thought it up. Didn't think this was gonna be any different, but thanks for the compliment!


	4. Reconciliation Via Leo

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted **

**_Chapter Three:_**_ Reconciliation Via Leo_

The most confusing thing about being disowned? Your name. Seriously, think about it. If you're disowned, it means you're no longer a part of the family, right? And what's the one thing all families are _guaranteed_ to have in common? The surname. I spent months debating whether I could still call myself a de Victoire or not.

About a week after my father _stated_ I was disowned, he made it official. Some tax collectors or whatever they're called—probably hired by my father—came knocking at my door some time in the mid-morning. I was totally wasted and nursing a hangover, so I didn't put up much of a fight, much less keeping track of time. I wasn't even aware of being kicked out of my home for the past four or so years until sobriety suddenly hit me in the form of freezing cold water in a McDonald's public bathroom.

The face staring out of the mirror was a tramp's. I mean, it wasn't filthy and its hair wasn't greasy or dry—quite perfect actually, looking like it was meant to be naturally tousled—but there was a desperate, almost wild look behind those crystal blue eyes and a defeated, weary expression written all over my features, even in my stance. The white Gucci blouse I'd managed to grab and slip on was creased and ruffled, tied in a knot as a mark of the urgency I was in this morning instead of buttoned up and therefore showing my black and red flower-patterned Ann Summers bra in all its lingerie glory. My tight leather trousers hanging off my hips and thick brown belt were immaculate, and my fashionable black ankle-high boots weren't too high or uncomfortable. Yet in spite of my fashionable (though the blouse and exposed bra greatly resembled the attire of a slut's—which, let's face it, I kinda was) designer clothing and unsoiled appearance, I still felt like dirt. Still felt worthless.

I ran my fingers through my brown—not angelically white-blonde, nor dramatically blue-black, just a medium dark brown—hair in an attempt to make myself more presentable. Or maybe I wasn't trying to—would a presentable person walk around with their blouse unbuttoned and showing the entire British public exactly what type of underwear they wore? Then I went in search of breakfast.

I was lucky enough to gain a council flat as a home that housed me for two and a half years. I had to lie about my family and general background information, portraying a young woman that ran away at fourteen from her abusive, alcoholic, druggie rapist of a father and had been living it rough since. My reason for not reporting about my paternal parent or stepping forward before this? I just discovered last week I was three weeks pregnant and would like to have a go at giving my child a shot at a 'normal' life, as I "can't afford to abort the brat." (Looks like those Theatrical Arts classes paid off after all.)

I'd been living in a flat that greatly resembles yet is _not_ my current accommodation, doing the lowest, dirtiest, minimum wage jobs ever invented. It got to a point where I considered taking up the flourished, established trade of prostitution, but realized that the only reason I didn't hate my easiness was because I hit the sack for fun, not money. Although I had no complaints when some of my one-nighters left a handful of twenty-pound notes (sometimes more). That didn't happen often; when you're constantly worried about your finances, you sometimes neglect your social life. and because I was so poor, liquor had gone out of my life as well. I didn't really miss either that much; now that I thought about it, they were both just distractions from my disintegrating college life.

And then…Leo appeared. Leonardo de Victoire, my successful, handsome, 'Latino lover-looking', as one of my so-called college 'friends' put it, barrister brother. The one engaged—now married—to the beautiful topless red-haired Katie? Yeah, he just suddenly appeared in my apartment, lounging on the couch that doubled as my bed, annoyingly gorgeous as ever. The sight of him made me feel outraged. How dare he just storm into my home, small and shabby as it was that he probably didn't think it even qualified as a _room_? I'd never been close to him, even if we were related. I had a closer relationship with Christa, and we _loathe_ each other.

"What do you want?" I demanded rudely, shoving my hair behind my right ear and crossing my arms. Leo raised a perfectly curved, distinctly feminine eyebrow that we'd both inherited from our—_Juliana_. Propping his feet up on my charity shop coffee table and crossing his long legs, he gave me a brilliant, perfectly white smile, but I could tell he found my accent intriguing—I still had that educated, upper class way of talking, only now it had been 'degraded', you could put it. More 'common', now that I'd stop rubbing shoulders with Britain's elite and had lived amongst the 'lower classes'. This is the twenty-first century, and social class still matters, apparently. (Some things never change.)

When he spoke, it was in a charming, perfectly 'educated' accent; "Now, is that any way to greet a brother whose wedding you hadn't bothered attending?"

Like that night with my father, I lost control, only not so violently. "Well I'm sorry that I was too busy trying to find a place that will take in a girl in disgrace to attend your union with that slut!" I snapped sarcastically, glaring at him. His black eyes just held my gaze, the expression in them almost…no. It's not possible; he doesn't even know me, why would he even care?

"I came to help you," he started diplomatically. I laughed, a cruel, bitter sound that didn't sound like it should come from a woman that hadn't even _lived_ her life yet. "Sierra, please don't," Leo…pleaded? The tone caught my attention, even if I refused to show it. "Listen, I know what our father did to you was—"

"Oh, haven't you heard," I interrupted. "He's not 'our' father anymore. Just 'yours'; yours and that cow's."

Clearly, Leo must have sensed my hostility towards our other sibling. "Chris is worried about you." Again, that horrible laughter erupted from my mouth. "So are our parents."

"Do you even _realize_ our—Alex—was who'd disowned me?"

"And do you realize the reason you've not been evicted was because Father had been secretly paying all the taxes and rent on this place?"

He'd said it so calmly, but it hit me like a ton of bricks. "You're lying," I said confidently, although I wasn't so certain inside. I mean, I saw the bills and had paid them myself. How could it even be conceivable?

"Well, he wants you back," Leo said, ignoring my two words. "And Father—he'd said he's sorry."

"I'll believe it when I hear it from him."

"He couldn't come here," Leo informed me, suddenly standing and looking very out of place in his tailored Armani suit, "because he's looking at extending his business. Currently looking at potential holiday villas in Spain. Mother's gone with him." Mother. She hadn't ever paid much attention to me, and hadn't even called after that little expulsion of mine. I suspected she was glad to have an excuse to ignore me. I'm still not sure of her feelings towards me, actually.

"Great," I said bitterly, feeling physically wounded. "He hadn't even cared enough to apologise in person."

"He cared enough to get you this." And my brother reached into his inside pocket and pulled a very plain white envelope with my name scrawled in my father's perfectly legible handwriting. "In two weeks, I think." Tentatively, I reached out and took it, and Leo grinned again. He looked so _good_ when he did that. I wanted to crush his windpipe. "I'd love to stay, Sierra," he said, suddenly sweeping me up into a hug that nearly sent me into shock, "but I've got a dinner date with my wife to attend." And he astonished me more by giving me a kiss on the cheek before striding out. I suspected he couldn't wait to be away from a place so filthy, and a giggle escaped from my lips.

Things were starting to look up. I channelled my sixteen-year-old self and spun slightly as I fell on the couch, staring at the envelope with what was probably a scarily insane grin. I'd expected it to be a letter, and it was, in a sense. It also contained a first class ticket to Tenerife, and the note attached was:

_I'll send a chauffeur to pick you up from the airport, and then we can discuss where else you wish to travel. Use the card to get whatever you'll need. Don't worry, I'm paying._

Included were my passport and a platinum credit card, along with some fifty-pound notes.

Even though I thought it, I hadn't actually realized it would be the best envelope I'll ever receive. And that was how my travelling to every corner of the earth began.

Making up was so much easier and more fun than I'd thought was ever possible.

_**(End)**_

****

****

**AN:** Personally, I thought this and the last chapter were a little boring. However, they're both essential to the plot, and I tried to make this part of the story as short as possible, so the Caribbean/time travel part should come up in the next chapter or so.

**AN2:** Um, does anyone else have problems with formatting, like inserting symbols and stuff, on ffn.net? Or is it just me and my computer?

**Reviewer(s):** I can't read my email! I can't even get into the account! It's probably because I hadn't checked it in a month or something, so if I had any reviews, I'm just saying I'll respond when I next update (which, hopefully would be sooner than this). Anyways, now I'm off to try to restore Hotmail.****


	5. Barbados

**AN:** Hello people, I'm back and pointedly ignoring the groaning in the back, and several people attempting to jump out of a closed window. SORRY SORRY

SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY (authoress fades into the background)

** How My Perfect Life Was Inverted **

**_Chapter Four:_**_ Barbados_

Janelle Anderson-Geller was a petite redhead with big blue-grey eyes and a mouth that was constantly in a childish pout. She had tanned, freckled skin that added to her 'little girl' charm, and as if that wasn't enough, her originally crimson, now streaked in every colour ever invented, hair was always tied up in two loose, messy bunches.

So you can hardly blame me for dropping dead—very nearly literally—when I found out she was doing some excavation work in Barbados, and was not just there to enjoy the sun as I originally assumed. I mean, first of all, she was the same age as me (twenty-four at the time), and second of all—well, her hair was _multicoloured_! People with hair streaked blue, pink, black, green and banana-yellow do not take up serious, _tedious_ jobs like marine excavation! It's like an unwritten, international law. Or it could be the Eleventh Commandment.

And when she spoke, it was in that preppy, bubbly American-cheerleader way that you always hear on American teen TV shows: "Hi! Are you Sierra? Oh my God, I'm like, so totally glad to meet you!" This was my guide to the Caribbean's historical/colonial sites and sounds?

Yes, after Paris, Milan, Rome, Venice, Florence, Vienna, New York, Los Angeles, Phuket, Sydney, and for some reason Tokyo and Singapore, I had finally arrived at my most anticipated destination: Barbados. I wanted some relaxation after some serious retail therapy and sightseeing. Seeing as _mein lieber Vater_ was paying for, well, _everything_, he thought that my little break from the trendiest cities in the world would be a good time for me to be taught a history lesson and see if there were any buildings up for sale. I don't understand why he didn't just come himself.

I don't know how it's possible, but apparently Dad was Daniel Anderson's, a maritime history expert or whatever, roommate way back in college, and he'd kept in contact with him. They hardly ever saw each other, and only spoke on the phone like, every other year, but apparently that was enough for their friendship to survive. Anderson and his niece (guess who) were working together on a yearlong dig (can you call a shipwreck a dig?) just off of Barbados, and my paternal parent, who was always concerned about my complete lack of interest in history, had pulled a few strings so that I had a 'local' guide for my four weeks in paradise.

I think I got her entire life story within an hour and a half of meeting her: she was born in Kingston, Jamaica, but after a very messy divorce, moved with her Dad, Liam Geller, to Chicago at the age of seven, visiting her mother, Marie Anderson, in Nassau once a year. Apparently on one of these vacations, when she was thirteen, her Mum took her to the historical Gallows' Point or something, which was near the equally historical Port Royal, and informed her that was where pirates were hanged in what I can only imagine was my idea of prehistoric times (anything before the invention of colour TV/cinema). Apparently Miss Anderson's rather vivid description of torture devices and hangings had the newly teenaged girl throwing up and tossing and turning in her sleep. Once Janelle was over that (a week and a half, roughly), she developed a morbid fascination with pirates and shipwrecks.

Her biography had me yawning in my sleep. I mean, who _cares_? I thought she was going to be more fun, and was preparing myself for a month of tedium, which I attempted to get round by avoiding her for the first week or so, until she 'confronted' me.

"Are you trying to avoid me?" she demanded, hands on her hips in an attempt of intimidation (which, seeing how she was shorter than me by a good head or so, was near impossible).

"Now where on earth did you get that idea?" I replied sardonically. I may have been kinder if cicadas hadn't been disturbing my beauty sleep ever since I'd arrived here. "Yes, Einstein, I _have_."

Her eyes widened in anger; her mouth pressed into a thin line. "Why would you—you don't even know me!" she snapped.

"Well," I answered, determined to vent out my hatred of insects on this perfectly innocent girl, "I know what type of person you are, and let me tell you, it's not one I like!"

"Wha—oh, and I suppose you're an omnipotent, perfect in every way possible goddess yourself, are you?" Before she gave me the chance to reply in the affirmative, she continued, "At least I'm not some desperate, slutty nympho like you are!"

"And what's wrong with that?! This isn't 1895, you know!"

"Oh nothing, _nothing_, unless, of course, it forced you to go to—what was it? Sex and Love Addicts Support Group?" she threw back.

"It's _SLAG_, actually," I corrected, a flush rising to my cheeks. Oh, if only I could forget that unpleasant memory. "And that has nothing to do with anything!"

"You know what?" she bellowed. "That is _it_. I am like, _so_ never gonna talk to you again!" And she stalked off to her room.

"Oh, that's _such_ a harsh punishment!" I yelled after her, marching towards the guestroom across from her own. Two doors slammed shut that night.

Throwing myself on the bed, I stared longingly out of the window. The bungalow was situated on top of a hill overlooking a bay, and I longed to be out on the soft sand instead of cooped up with only So-Preppy-She-Should-Be-Outlawed as company. Walking to the window, I leaned against the pane of glass as I stared out at the serene ocean. The old fan I switched on in an attempt to fight off the near unbearable heat grated on my nerves, but did I turn it off and open the window? No, because those crickets were out there.

My eyes fell on a familiar silhouette tied to a small dock, and a wicked grin spread across my lips as I recalled a certain set of keys I saw on a coffee table…

-!-!-

The next morning I took the speedboat belonging to a certain redhead, thinking I'll spend the day drifting ashore before coming back to make up with Janelle. This plan was made under the assumption that we'll both cool off and be ready to forgive and forget. So it was to be expected that I spent the first forty-five minutes or so going over every single aspect of Janelle I found irritating, picking apart in an attempt to discover and expose her weaknesses before trying to decipher how I could change my flight ticket for an earlier date for free and go to—

"Crap, what the _hell_ was that?!" Even though I was the only living soul on the water, it took a moment for me to realize the person who'd yelled/cussed in surprise was me. Aren't I ingenious?

I knew what the cause of the sudden collision was before I'd turned the key and scurried over to stare over the side into the not so dark and murky depths. Coral. I'd ran right into a bloody reef. A very destructive, bloody reef that had torn a bloody huge hole in my boat. How. Bloody. Wonderful.

I knew I couldn't turn back with a hole that size in the boat—it was only a matter of moments before water started spurting in. But luckily, I could just make out a tiny stretch of land, only a little out of reach of swimming distance. My eyes rested on my backpack, which held inside my mobile phone. A plan started to form in my strangely rational mind; I'll swim to the palm tree-lined island and call Janelle, who in turn will call the coastguard. Surely she wouldn't let a little quarrel endanger someone's life?

But the bag was not waterproof, and I'm pretty certain that mobiles, like all other technology in this day and age, will be less functional if submerged in water. Stupid electrical scientific functioning crap.

Opening the backpack, I immediately spied something that was watertight: my makeup bag! And Daddy said products of beautification didn't mean the difference between life and death. Shows what he knows.

I knew I was going to die for certain if I didn't make the ultimate sacrifice, but even then I hesitated. The water was around my ankles at this point, and still I was reluctant to let my expensive French cosmetics, the likes of which included the world-renowned Christian Dior, go. This was _Titanic_ all over again; I played Rose, and the mascara, eye shadow, lipstick, blush, eyeliner and foundation powder all came together to portray Jack. I swore I could hear Celine Dion in the background…

Grimacing, I tipped the plastic bag upside down, tipping everything precious and dear to me into the backpack—I just couldn't seem to part with them. Ordinarily, if you tell someone if they must choose between their life and their looks, chances are they'll choose their life. But when it actually comes to the moment of reckoning, it's almost impossible to decide. I shoved my impossibly tiny Motorola into the bag, zipping it up tightly before shoving it inside the tiny backpack and zipping that up as well. Slinging it over my shoulder, I jumped with as much grace as a hippopotamus on tightrope.

The Caribbean is just as beautiful underwater as it is above it, if not more so. Or maybe it was just because I was near a reef. The sand underwater looked just as soft and inviting as its counterpart on the beaches, and the many beautiful, exotic fish swimming by didn't even bother to acknowledge my presence. When I get back, I'll have to take scuba diving lessons.

Then I realized I couldn't hold my breath any longer, and immediately all my energy was put into fighting my way to the surface, suddenly conscious of the stinging of my eyes.

I gulped down air as soon as my head broke the surface of the water, refilling my lungs with much-needed oxygen. How long had I been below the surface anyway? It felt like eight seconds to me, and I knew I could hold my breath for just under a minute before my lungs start to burst.

I floundered around in the water for a bit, seeking desperately to find that island I spied from the practically sunken boat, my right hand clutching tightly onto my beige backpack for life. The current must have pulled me a little closer whilst I was sub aqua, for I spied the island in the distance immediately, and realized it wasn't as distant as I'd assumed.

I'd never been a swimming champion, but I swam all right, in my opinion. Well enough to feel wet sand beneath my now thoroughly soaked Skechers in less than ten minutes. Wading my way through the forever-animate waves of the ocean, I was about knee-deep when I suddenly realized exactly _what_ had just occurred. I'm fast, aren't I?

As soon as I'd reached soft white sand my legs collapsed, and I dropped the trusty pack besides me as I suddenly crumpled, on my hands and knees. I wasn't feeling particularly lethargic, more comatose from shock and comprehension suddenly registering with my brain. I'd just been…shipwrecked (or boat-wrecked, to be precise).

But not for long.

I fell onto the sand, accidentally ingesting some of that fine substance in the process, before rolling on to my back, sand sticking to my wet clothing and hair. The sun blinded me, and my eyelids, already sore from their prolonged exposure to salt, instinctively squeezed shut against its angry glare. My feet kicked off my sneakers, and I was somehow able to get the thin socks off as well. They peeled away, for some odd reason reminding me of a snake shedding its skin. Right, 'cause that's what I needed right now; to have a mental picture of a boa constrictor or anaconda sliding out of its scaly hide as it came slithering towards me, yellow eyes eyeing me hungrily as it opened its jaws impossibly wide, revealing sharp, poisonous fangs less than a millimetre from—

Do they _have_ snakes in the Caribbean?

Who cares? I have a very important phone call to make. (Apparently, talking to and contradicting yourself inside your own head is not the first sign of a stable mind.)

My arm flung to my side as I scrambled for the bag, eventually clasping the flap. I pulled it towards me, sitting up. A small part of me stopped to pay a moment of respectful silence as I saw the now ruined cosmetics before I grabbed the pale blue zip of their previous home that would have saved them from their watery doom. Poor gold eye shadow: she had suffered the most. That reminded me: I wiped at my eyes and lips, leaving a black, yellow and red smear on my unnaturally clean T-shirt.

My fingers closed around the solid, mercifully dry plastic of my mobile, and I grinned in victory as I produced the life-saving object. But the battery had obviously decided to make like my makeup (therefore destroying my fake powdery beauty) and die.

"No!" I yelled, throwing the latest model in handheld communications technology as far away as possible. It landed harmlessly on the sand before doing a series of very innovative rolls that I thought no phone, portable or not, could execute before stopping at the base of a palm tree. I fell back onto the sand, knowing I was messing up my dripping darkened locks, but not caring, and glowered at the cheerful blue sky and bright yellow sun.

About a half hour later did I think of exploring. The isle was quite small, from what I gathered, and had some kind of palm tree forest in the centre of it. Standing, I brushed myself off, leaving my shoes on the beach to dry out in the sun whilst I snuck into the shade. I've never been much of a sun-worshipper, but neither was I a vampire, and I could only take so much heat and light.

About a quarter of the way in, I tripped over a tree root, cursing as I fell flat on my face. Righting myself, I turned to look back at the annoying piece of plant life, and noticed that the root seemed to be connected to some sort of planking of some kind. My curiosity was peaked; I reached out and brushed the sand away, revealing a trapdoor.

If I had been Janelle, I would have probably stopped to marvel at how a wooden object evidently at least two centuries old had managed to survive in such good condition. But I was just an inquisitive tourist, and with both hands on the handle was able to just lift the thing open. It smelt dusty and musty as I descended down the wooden ladder, but surprisingly, it wasn't dark. The light filtering in from the few palms that were all kind of bent over the trapdoor like a natural umbrella was enough to dimly light the underground room.

The strangest thing was, it didn't _smell_ old, like a museum or something. It evidently was, but it didn't smell like it.

Squinting, I moved towards what I assumed was a wall only to come in contact with shelves and smooth warm glass bottles. This was a rum cellar. Why would anyone _bury_ rum?

I grabbed about three bottlenecks, thinking that at least I won't have to spend the days until I die of thirst and starvation sober. God does work in mysterious ways.

But Lord knows, that stuff was strong. I'd only had about a quarter of one bottle, lying just inside the mini-jungle so I was in the shade, before I felt all giddy and dizzy. But then again, I hadn't actually drunk alcohol in large quantities for a couple of years now, so I thought maybe my tolerance level had gone down.

And has it gone down; about halfway through the first bottle I'd passed out.

-!-!-

I'd felt cheated, in a way. In sci-fi movies and television, if ever someone was to time-travel, be it forwards or backwards, there's always a swirly glowing portal (usually blue or purple for some reason), or everything goes to black and white or you and your surroundings become negative or something. Usually, something _happens_ to you and the scenery around you, and bam!—all of a sudden you're in another place or time period, or both.

No such luck for me. I woke up strangely hangover-less with an ancient gun pressed against my forehead and an angry man yelling grief at me in one of my mother's two native tongues: _Español_.

Holy. Crap.

**-!-**

**AN:** …SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY SORRY! Ha, take that, Guinness World Records judging panel for Saddo Who Can Apologise the Most.

Guinness World Records Judging Panel: You're still several sorry's short… 

**A:** Damnit! (goes hangs herself)

**Readers:** Look at the author's note above—that's right that's all for you (obviously)! Thank you for still reading despite my really crummy updating abilities. Ah, this is fun to write, although I'm sad to say I had to delete a whole section on SLAG meetings (Sex and Love Addicts Group) to move the story along, and am kicking myself, I really liked that chapter, but oh well. I hope you people can see and appreciate the sleaziness of the acronym, regardless of whether you're British or no, 'cause if you are, you'll definitely be able to get it, and just thought I'll tell you this because I need filler.


	6. When In Doubt, Join A Nunnery

**AN:** I'm back with an animated image of my getting pitchforked. Random, I know. And all the apologies in the world won't come close to how I feel, so why bother? But I am sorry. And humbled. And cold… Anyway, chappie five! Feel free to flame me, whether for my writing skills or the unrivalled title of World's Worst Fan Fiction Updater…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

**_Chapter Five:_**_ When In Doubt, Join A Nunnery_

I stared at him, paralysed—I gave a whole new meaning to the term 'brain freeze'. He stared back. I screamed. So did he, stumbling backwards. I scrambled to my feet, and hewell, if I was suddenly overcome with the overwhelming urge to dance the cancan, chances are he will too.

In those few minutes, I discovered several things:  
men enjoy parroting me,  
guns have a strange affinity with my forehead,  
those Spanish lessons were a waste of money,  
the sun was blindingly bright.

Turning tail, I ran back into midst of the palmettos. Well, that was the plan, and it would have succeeded but for one detail:

you cannot run if you're still sitting on the ground. So I didn't run so much as scoot backwards at a pace a snail would have been ashamed of. The fact that my back was pressed against a tree probably had nothing to do with it.

He was quite young, maybe fifteen, poor boy, and rather crude in speech, if nothing else. Any sympathy I may have held for him vanished when he let loose the most vulgar of vocabulary I'd ever heard in a foreign tongue. Don't even get me _started_ on his outdated clothing—and when I say outdated, I don't mean just a season or two, although that's enough for someone like me to bitch about behind the fashion victim's back. _No_, I mean more like a century or two—like he was a wannabe-pirate or something.

Remember what I said about firearms' unconditional love for my forehead? Yeah, they seem to be rather fond of my skull as well.

Ask the rifle that knocked me out.

-

"So she's not with child?"

"If she was, it ain't mine."

"Well," the first voice said, a woman who sounded like a broom had been rammed right up her—never mind, "that's a change. Most of the girls brought here for charity tend to have or had a harsh circumstance and will leave as soon as they are disposed of the bastard."

Ah, _français_; a beautiful language comprised of sounds one tends to hear when one is spitting, gagging, or merely choking. Something I did in an attempt to converse with the looming shadows in the flickering candlelight. How _romantic_—they probably didn't realize I was a sure thing.

My head pounded; my lips felt dry and cracked, and my mouth and throat were in desperate need of moisture. They only glanced at me once before returning to their discussion, the subject of which was me.

"If she's not a whore," the nasal-voiced woman said with a glee that made me want to shove that broom a little further, "and she wasn't violated, then precisely _where_ is the location of her clothing?" _Oh_, so that explains why I felt so naked and vulnerable and exposed.

Wait a minute, _what_!

I sat up, pulling the covers resting around my hips in order wrap them around my torso. The woman, an elderly nun (she sounded like an obstinate, finicky prude) let out a surprised scream, making the Sign of the Cross and mumbling a prayer in Latin. Had I sprouted a pair of horns?

"Who are you people!" I yelped, backing away using only my elbows for navigation.

"_Mon Dieu! Anglais_!" the woman cried, yet again crossing herself. I muttered a few well-chosen phrases that I shan't repeat in response to her unshakable belief that I was English-speaking devil-spawn.

A Hispanic man, completely unfamiliar to me, turned to the Sister in order to further their discussion of my general self, but I beat them to it.

"What does a girl have to do for some clothes around here!"

The Christian woman stared blankly at me, dark eyes widening in horror as I let out less-than-pious declarations when my left elbow collided with a burning candle. Who in their right mind would place fire next to completely unconscious strangers anyway? I could have been a flippin' a pyromaniac for all they knew.

Grabbing hold of the offended appendage, I keeled over the scalded elbow, picking off the wax with the utmost care. I was only half aware of hastened mutterings and quick footsteps of a man desperate to desert a place of worship. When I'd looked up again, I saw only the epitome of propriety staring down at me, a mass of black material in her arms. A younger woman, actually a girl, fifteen or so, carried in one hand a steaming mug of what smelled like freshly-grounded coffee, whilst the other held a plate balancing a cottage loaf and cheese. Her eyes were cast down, rounded cheeks aflame, even though I'd made a concerted effort to preserve my modesty.

"Set them down on the cabinet, Cécile," the woman said, "and pick up that candle whilst you're doing so." The plain-faced teenager complied, setting the food down gently before picking up the wounding source of light that I had clumsily put out. She moved to a desk opposite my bed; the only other piece of furniture besides a chair in the small, cramped room, on which sat an old oil lamp, placing the burnt wick into the flame with calculated precision. As she nervously returned to me to replace the now-burning wax in its holder, I instinctively shrank away.

Fire _hurts_.

Ignoring the girl, I focused my attention on the drab attire. "…Do I want to know what that is?" I ventured fearfully.

"Why, dear child, your clothing," she replied patronizingly. At least now she realized I was not Satan in woman form…

"But I'm not a nun," I revealed. And besides, didn't you need to be _somewhat_ respectable in order to be granted that _most envied_ position? Some distant part of my mind told me that only the wealthiest could afford to send their daughters away to some convent for an education.

But then again, all of this was in my mind. Some guy had probably spiked my drink in some seedy club, and I'd only imagined the past two days or however long it had been since I'd _thought_ I'd been in this place. Or maybe I hadn't even left for Barbados; perhaps I was still shopping in Tokyo, freaking out all the locals by spitting out random comments about nunneries and whatnot. Yeah, I'll wake up to see a very concerned airhostess looking down at me.

Unless I'd spent my entire life high and had _imagined_ my entire life so far, and this was the sad twisted reality. Oh God, what if I was an actual _hag_ instead of the svelte, striking woman I'd always though I was? What if I was looking into a mirror at this very moment and talking to myself?

A dry smile stretched her thin lips. "The merchant sailors that brought you here tell me they found you on an island; one so small it is unchartered on any map," she started. When I nodded slowly (although I somehow doubted they _were_ 'merchant sailors' judging how unhesitatingly they'd stripped) she continued, "So I believe it will be safe to assume that you've no family, no friends of any kind, no property of your own?"

"Pardon for my interrupting, _madame_, but where _are_ my things?" I said suddenly. As if on cue, the boy that had taken such delight in mimicking my movements on the isle suddenly burst into the open doorway, emitting a shriek from young Cécile, who was in the middle of attempting to leave as inconspicuously as possible. His eyes were wide with horror, and he all but threw a worn brown sack at my face. (To my utter annoyance, he didn't entirely miss.)

"_Diablo_!" he yelled, pointing a skinny tan finger in my direction. I'd always thought he was quite calm and rational… "_Bruja Diablo_!" And he vanished in less than five seconds.

Well, that wasn't at all dramatic.

Us three remaining females all stared at the doorway for a few moments. Then, remembering myself, I turned to the predecessor of Mother Theresa, surprised that she hadn't Crossed herself after the accusation made by the much-too-prying cabin boy. "Yes, but what does any of this have to do with me?" I demanded, clutching the precious bundle to my chest and thinking about always carrying my own drink with me at all times from now on. Or maybe I _had_ arrived in Barbados… Yes, that was it; all I need do is cut back on my time in the sun. Clearly, too much exposure causes hallucinations as well as skin cancer.

"Well, child," the elder woman stated, still recovering from the sudden interruption, "you have been placed into…unfortunate circumstances—I can only assume that your life before was no better (boy, was she ever wrong) —and therefore it is…our duty, as the servants and brides of Christ (how the hell that works out, I'll never know), to take in and nurture neglected creatures such as yourself…those that have strayed from the flock…"

Oh God—flashback to boarding school. _Flashback to Catholic boarding school!_ And that assembly on charity, loving thy neighbours… I shuddered; schooldays were _not_ my fondest memory. Oh, kill me now. Please, kill me.

If the Mother (she was definitely more than a mere Sister) could see my horror, she chose not to show it, or to ignore it completely. Dismissing Cécile, who had taken to lurking obediently, watching two elder women converse in a language she probably had very little or no understanding in, she placed the faded robes on the bed, at my feet. "We're taking you in, _mademoiselle_…?" she said, although her voice did not contain the kindness one would have expected with that comment.

And I didn't _want_ to be taken in. I wanted to go home! Or rather, somewhere that had heard of electricity.

…But it seemed I had no choice in the matter. My drugged mind wasn't releasing me yet.

I hesitated, debating on whether or not I should answer honestly or just make up a surname. Seeing how creativity didn't really seem to be working for me at the moment, I gave her my name. "Sierra…" I begun timidly, hesitantly, as though she would wield a great power over me if she knew my identity. "…de Victoire." There. Done. Finished. And now…?

She looked at me in slight surprise, her eyes roving over my form as though seeing me for the first time. "_Ah, so you have French blood in you_," she said softly in her native patois. I shrugged unenthusiastically—I may have… I didn't make it a habit of keeping track of my family tree.

"Tomorrow morning," she instructed, snapping back to English and her distant, formal self, "you shall firstly attend Mass, confess your sins to a priest—I doubt very much that you've led a Christian life, _mam'selle_ (she was closer to the truth than she'll _ever_ know) —and take your holy orders." I nodded dumbly, resigning myself to a life of tedium and propriety. It was better than wondering the streets in this unknown world… "And after that, you wonder… Well, you no longer need worry about your next meal."

Stunned by the sincere simplicity of her anticlimactic conclusion, I watched her leave, surprised that she could be so completely accurate about my life so far and yet misjudge me so greatly. I saw her close the door and her the quiet, unmistakable sound of the key turning in the lock, hearing her footsteps die along the no doubt deserted corridor.

I leaned back, letting the covers fall away now witnesses were no longer present. Staring at the ceiling, I tried miserably to piece together what I could and determine what had gotten me into this mess, and how I could get out of it. I'd argued with Janelle (if, indeed, she was real—I wasn't ruling out drugs and besides, _The Matrix_ had never really left me) —could she have placed some weird Caribbean voodoo upon me? Or my father, indeed, any of my immediate relatives (excluding Leo and his whore) —could they have done this to me?

All I'd gained was a hurt head and a sudden need for nourishment. Sitting up I reached out, ripping off a piece of bread and chewing thoughtfully upon it as I reflected on what Mother Holier-Than-Thou had instructed me.

Confession tomorrow, hmm? That should prove interesting…

**-**

**AN:** Hey, guess what? I can guarantee that the next chapter will be up within the next week…because I already wrote it! And Jack appears, before you get worried and flame for false-advertising…

Yeah. I'm happy—I'm proud. It's sad. **Review! And thank you all reading!** Pitchforks for all! (I'm too lazy to post individual responses this chapter…) And remember, there is a link in my bio where you can pitchfork me to your heart's content. I am not a proud advocate of self-harm—I do not, however, respond well to peer pressure. Damned friendship loyalties…


	7. Confess Thy Sins

**AN:** See, just like I promised… Don't get used to it, although with a lot of GENTLE prodding from my pyromaniac best friend and beta-reader for one fic (not this one, so sorry if it's always slightly screwed up with typos or whatever) I should update at least once a month. Like I said, don't get used to it… Has anyone actually pitchforked me yet? You must all hate me so…

Hey, **jennifer123**—it's REVIEW whore, to be exact… And this is definitely sooner, so ha!

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

**_Chapter Six:_**_ Confess Thy Sins_

Mass was just as dull as I'd remembered it from my schooldays; needless to say I'd spent most of it plotting and planning to smallest detail what I would say to the poor priest who'll have me. After an eternity of sitting, listening to the Glory of God and His Divine Will and how when speaking of Him nouns and pronouns are immediately capitalized, I was finally pulled aside at the end of the service as all the women left for their exciting day in the nunnery. I was slightly pleased to discover I'd become a celebrity of some sort—Sister Sierra, the slut the Spaniards brought in…

Another Mother kindly pointed me to the English church nearby, some distance from the convent, and with a slight smile I proceeded to travel merrily towards the building. I think I was actually skipping as I made my way to it, humming tunelessly and smiling to whatever poor common fools up at this time in the morning (although early-risers were not uncommon). My head was uncovered—Cécile had conveniently forgotten to bring me that horrendous headpiece all the other holy women were wearing—and my brown hair blew liberally around my shoulders in the cool morning breeze.

Bursting into the little chapel, I strolled leisurely down the aisle, veering right at the end towards the confessional. Knocking, I slipped in unflappably, smiling flirtatiously at the silhouette opposite me whilst twirling the blood-red rosary someone had dropped in my room between my fingers. I was in a very sunny mood. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," I sang in French—I had always been good at French and German at school, although my Latin did leave much to be desired. I could hear the rustling of fine robes opposite me followed by cursing that left my jaw slacked. "Father?" I repeated in English, leaning forward, squinting my blue eyes in an attempt to make out his features.

"Yes, my child?" he'd responded immediately in very clear French. Obviously, he'd been well-educated as a boy, being able to speak both French and English with such clarity. But I wondered just how far his education went…

I started slightly at the unexpected reply, but as I drew backwards, I quickly recomposed myself. I could have sworn I'd _heard_ him smiling. "I… I have…" Damn it; where had all the brilliant schemes and _double entendres_ gone? My mind struggled for some unholy crime with which to indict myself with, but came up with nothing. Stupid mind. "I have committed adultery!" I'd blurted out slightly hysterically. Could I sound any faker? I could sense his scepticism, so I decided to build on my unstructured statement. "I am unmarried, and last night, a sailor…" I froze, frowning. Sailor was slightly random.

"You woke up in a sea-rat's bed," he summed up quite crudely.

"Well, yeah," I lied, feeling more than slightly confused. This was not how I'd thought this little meeting would go…

"I see," he muttered. "When?"

I blinked. "W—When?" I repeated idiotically.

"Yes, _when_. How long ago?" he demanded a tad more impatiently than I would have thought.

"Why, last night, of course," I elaborated. What type of priest was he?

"Well in that case, I wouldn't have said you've _sinned_," he said annoyingly calmly. "More like made a _mild_ mistake." I could imagine him—whatever he looked like—winking knowingly at me. "Trust me, darlin', it happens to the best of us." I flinched—where the hell did that accent come from! "But I forgive you, and so does the Lord," he continued, "so no guilty consciences, alright?"

My jaw dropped. _That was it?_ I'd seemed to have lost the ability to move my tongue or lips, so I just sat there, gaping at the crisscrossed screen separating me from this unruffled priest. Suddenly I was overcome with the sudden urge to slap the smug grin no doubt spread across his arrogant features. What the hell did he _look_ like, anyway?

"Just go on home and…read the Good Book for five hours straight," he instructed. "If that doesn't get you on the verge of suicide, I don't know what will," he muttered in an annoyed whisper to himself. So I _had_ irritated him; a spoilt brat finally defeats piety. Victory for the impersonating nun! As opposed to the genuine priest…

There was only silence between us, broken by the distant sounds of a marching regiment. "Now if you don't mind, I must be leavin' ye." I could sense him inclining his head respectfully towards me; heard those robes rustle as he moved out of the little booth.

I was suddenly overcome by the strangest desire to see his face—smack it if need be. So I followed suit, also exiting my compartment. As I stood in the filtered sunlight, blinking, I saw a dark-clad figure moving hastily away from me, to the door. "Wait!" I called after him, gathering up the skirts. I could hear the silent curses as he halted before spinning on his heel towards me.

"Yes?" he snapped irritably, his face shrouded in shadow. My curiosity was yet to be satisfied; angrily, I strolled towards him, waiting until I was level with him before I said—whatever the hell it was I was going to say. But I never got the chance.

Several things happened at once; the doors to the little chapel suddenly burst open, soldiers of two main ranks stormed in, and I heard the nasal voice of a tall man in a neat shirt and breeches screech, "There he is! There he is! That blasted pirate! With my robes!"

I could feel my eyes widen; before I'd even had a chance to process what was happening, the so-called priest had grabbed me tightly round the waist, and I felt the familiar, if unwelcome, sensation of a pistol trained against my forehead.

How. Many. Times. A. Week?

I might have been more amused if I hadn't been so apprehensive at that very moment in time; guns tend to have that effect on most people, I find. I whimpered; I was vaguely aware of the man—the pirate using me as some sort of bargaining chip with the local law-enforcement squadron, threatening my life. I was conscious of the fact that we'd started moving towards the door, the officers parting for us like the Red Sea as we'd approached.

But that doesn't necessarily mean I was _there_.

Without warning, he'd released my waist (I'm woman enough to admit I was _slightly_ upset by the sudden loss of physical contact, even though I'd yet to get a proper look at him) and grabbed my wrist, pulling me along with him like a dog on a lead. "Keep up, love," he commanded as he raced through the streets, weaving between stray townsfolk up and about and leading me into the heart of the bustling marketplace, "I still need you."

"Okay," I consented meekly, still unable to believe I was agreeing to _help_ the same man that had put a gun to his forehead less than two minutes ago.

"Smart girl," he commented, before suddenly raising his voice. "'Scuse us—comin' through! Beg your pardon, sir, we're running a little late—A thousand apologies, milady!" and so forth. Still, in shock, I let the hurried, meaningless apologies wash over my ears in a daze, my mind concentrated on one thought: _Janelle would be _so_ jealous when she finds out._ _If_ she finds out—if she was real, remember?

"Hey, watch it, lad!" His voice suddenly cut through my thoughts. "We're late for a bloody exorcism here!" This comment, understandably, ruined my reputation; my foot caught on a loose stone, and sensing my fall, he released my wrist, letting me tumble to the ground. My stumble would no doubt serve as a sufficient distraction to make good his escape to his ship—and that's precisely what I did.

The mass had suddenly surged around me the moment I'd hit my head on the corner of a stall, knocking a few apples and sending me flying. As I laid there, I heard some gasps from the shocked women, and heard some of their concerned cries. There was some murmuring amongst the small crowd, but I didn't care; my head was throbbing painfully, and as I sat up, I reached to tentatively touch the tender area, gasping as I did so. My fingers came away stained with crimson liquid; I knew there would be some swelling and bruising in the days to come.

"Get out of the way—can't you see she needs air, folks?" The voice was unrecognisable, a woman's with a slight affected accent, and I felt her hands on my shoulder and elbow, helping me stand. The sudden movement sent the blood rushing to my head, and I grimaced in pain. Distantly, I heard a boy ask if he should track down the priest.

"Don't be such an imbecile, Jones!" she snapped, quite close to my ear. She looked up into my eyes, being quite a short, rounded woman of lower bourgeoisie. "My, my, aren't you a charming little doll," she said a little gentler, examining my features. I couldn't scrutinize her own; all I saw was various fleshy colours merging together, spots dancing before my eyes.

Flinging one arm around my waist, she half-guided, half-supported me as she led me away, out into a quieter side street. I did not ask her who she was or where she was taking me; I doubted my head would have been able to stand the strain of conversation. We continued walking, taking twists and turns, until we'd found ourselves in a respectable, if slightly shabby, residential area. Here the woman stopped and turned towards me. "You're the girl that came in on the Spanish ship, aren't you?" she asked. I nodded, wincing at the movement. Her face was still too bright to make out any of the features.

"Ah, I thought as much," she nodded. And then, "I suppose those women at the Madeleine forced you to join them?" I nodded yet again, feeling more and more light-headed as each second passed. "Such stubborn, nosy prigs you can never hope to meet than those French Catholic nuns. You poor child! Do you wish to be returned?" I shook my head vigorously, crying out. You'd think I'd have learned: no sudden head movements.

"There, there!" she said soothingly, treating me like I was a six-year-old when I was already well into my twenties. "I'll clean you up at my home—you can stay with me if you wish." Her hands cupped either side of my face, bringing it downwards. "Well, aren't you a pretty one, scruffy as you are?" she said in a motherly tone. "My sister would absolutely adore you if she could see you!"

I groaned; when in pain, I was in no mood for compliments. "Why, if I just clean you up even a little, you would be absolutely ravishing!" she was saying, and continued chatting as she slowly led me down the street, but I hardly noticed her presence. I had calmed down a great deal since last night, and although the throbbing temple was a distraction, was finally able to think with some form of lucidity.

I had no idea who this woman was; kindly she was, but exactly _who_ was she and what did she want with me? By allowing her to lead me to her home, what was I getting myself into?

Secondly, I'd somehow stumbled into another time, if not another place and I wasn't _at all_ panicked? Why was I simply just accepting this as fact, and then proceeded to flirt (if one could call that flirting—I've done better, I'm sure) with a pirate, escape from a nunnery, and now allow myself to be led into this overly-familiar woman's house without much more than a raised eyebrow? I wasn't _that_ much of a pushover; _au contraire_, I've been told I was quite the opposite.

And most importantly, that pirate, the one who had 'advised' me, threatened me, and threw me to the ground…

Did he ever attend that exorcism?

**-x!x-**

**AN:** OK, now who honestly _did not_ see that coming?


	8. An Introduction to Society And Piracy

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AN: You know, maybe you should all just take it for granted that I apologise profusely at the beginning of each and every update. It'll save time…

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And just a very quick note on the chapter before last: as CaptainTish pointed out, Sierra wakes up with no clothes after being rescued by an unidentified crew. Well, seeing how there may be other DELIBERATE plot holes, I thought I'll put this up now: yes, she's concerned by her sudden lack of clothing, but seeing how she thought (and in this chapter, still does) it all some random hallucination, didn't concern herself too much. Also, she couldn't give a name to the crew, because she was unconscious for the majority of the voyage and thus had a SLIGHT problem with communicating. Plus, they're only there to save her and go away; they don't have any large role within the actual plot. But when I wrote that, I was thinking of them as being honest Spanish sailors who simply stopped at the desert island to fix a few sails wrecked by a storm the night before. Perhaps I should have made that clearer…

So if there's anything that doesn't add up in future, please feel free to point it out. There's a great chance that I figured it all out but couldn't find a way to incorporate it into the actual chapter, seeing how my character isn't God and therefore is in the dark most if the time…

And now, onto the chapter! Where we realize just how arrogant the protagonist really is… I quite hated her in this: I mean, how shallow can you get?

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Seven: An Introduction to Society And Piracy

The woman that had rescued me was called Molly, Molly Cleave, and she seemed absolutely taken with me, for want of a better word. The moment I'd entered her home, she'd ordered a vindictive-looking maid named Sara to prepare a bath for me, and when she was done with that task to fetch a Monsieur Duplain immediately.

Meanwhile, she was occupying herself looking at my face from every angle. "It's really just temporary swelling, dear," she repeated yet again, fingers twisting my chin this way and that.

Her obsession with my face was suspiciously unnerving… I wrenched my jaw from her gentle grasp, fully conscious of sidling away on the simple, homely couch. "That's good to know," I said somewhat sincerely. I had practically thrown away those pious robes, and was now clad only in the simple white cotton chemise and stockings I'd been given to wear beneath the habit. I felt greatly apprehensive of Molly Cleave, with her cheerful, covetous muddy-green eyes, the ruddy, rounded face, and her stunted height, and would have gladly traded her instead for her malevolent maid's companionship. "What… Why did you…?" What was the best way of saying 'I know you're planning some horrible illegal scheme inside that mousy-haired head of yours, lady, and unless you've got a lot of cash in ominous-looking briefcases and know the location of a time-travelling portal somewhere near here, I wish to be no part of it'?

Instead I blurted out, "Who the hell was that guy with the gun?" Well, at least she had no idea I was harbouring a great deal of mistrust towards her.

She looked at me, taken by surprise. "I beg your pardon?" she responded stiffly after two or three ticks of the ornate clock within the room went by.

I blinked, biting my lip as I felt a wave of hot embarrassment creep upon my cheeks. Of course, I needed to age my language a bit. But, finding no antique vocabulary excluding Shakespeare and his 'thee's' and 'thou art's' within the region of my mind, used the thesaurus embedded there thanks to those wonderful institutions known as 'private schools'. "I wish to…inquire as to the identity of the…" I froze. Exactly what should I call the gun-toting piratical male? I had quite a few names, but none that would qualify as suitable for my purposes and will more likely than not be lost upon the middle-aged spinster. So, _what_? 'Priest' accompanied by air quotations? Felon? Criminal? Bandit? Pirate? Buccaneer? Captain 'Yes, that _is_ a pistol in my pocket'?

I suppressed a slight smirk at the insinuations of the last. I think I'll just settle for good ole 'gentleman'. I cleared my throat. "The identity of the gentleman that had behaved so…_aggressively_ towards my person?"

"You want to know whom the pirate that nigh made off with you was?" she summarised my long-winded speech.

"Yea— _Yes_." I nodded vigorously.

A devious smile spread across her face, eliciting a nervous expression of my own. "My dear…"

I sighed. "Sierra de Victoire," I admitted grudgingly. Well it's an unusual name, and quite a mouthful to boot. I seriously needed to change it. Or get married.

"My, what a pretty name!" she exclaimed so happily I very nearly dropped dead. Now, I enjoyed compliments just as much as the next conceited upper-middle-class twenty-two-year-old, but if she said anything (and I mean _anything_) of mine— hair, skin, eyes, legs, toenail clippings— was pleasing to her eyes, I will beat her to death with a shovel. There has to be one around here somewhere.

"_Mademoiselle_ de Victoire," she began, and I groaned. Why did everyone believe I was borne to the home of sophistication, fashion, and baguettes? "The 'gentleman', as you so graciously referred to him as, is not at all a gentle…_man_." She was giving me a predatory look as she separated the label into noun and adjective. I noticed, with a lurching stomach, that she was edging ever closer to my person. If there was such a thing as a lockable personal bubble, I would have chained and padlocked it shut and lowered the draw gate by now.

But then again, if there _was_ such a thing as a personal bubble, she would have probably taken one look at the hostile entrance, go round to the back, and pop it with a hairpin.

I blinked, giving myself a mental slap. I came back to reality to see her looking intently at me, grassy eyes bulging, face leaning forwards dramatically towards my own. "I'm sorry," I said, fighting the urge to jump away in revulsion— although why I was so repelled by her, I could not say (she looked and smelled clean). "Could you repeat that?"

Miss Molly made an irritated sound in the back of her throat, pulling away from me in disgruntlement. Evidently, my nonplussed reaction had greatly disappointed her. "I wasn't paying attention," I said nonchalantly, "I do that a lot. It's a habit, and not one I plan on abandoning." Leaning against the couch's arm, I prepared myself for the dramatic retelling of a well-known tale, remembering techniques my first love had taught me in Oxford.

__

"So if you're planning on looking delightedly surprised, you merely need to remember one very simple technique: just imagine it's your birthday, and Brad Pitt had just jumped out of a giant birthday cake."

Actually, I'm not that fond of Brad Pitt.

But there was no need to imagine famous Hollywood stars I didn't feel even remotely attracted to jumping out of inedible birthday cakes; the moment, it seemed, had passed for such dramatics. "I said that you had been menaced by none other than _Jack Sparrow_," she disgruntledly informed me.

I simply stared at her, suddenly feeling livid. "That's _it_?" Did my subconscious really hate me _that_ much? If I'd imagined I was living somewhere in the seventeenth/eighteenth century, surely I deserved a more notorious foe? I'm thinking more along the lines of Blackbeard instead of some joke excuse for a pirate not even good enough to go down in history; I'm still not certain if this wasn't some sort of weird alternate universe my mind had cooked up, or if this _extreme_ case of relocation had actually happened.

At the look on Madam Cleave's face, I calmed sufficiently to smile uneasily at her. "I've never heard of him."

"_What_!" she exclaimed, so suddenly and with such volume I quite literally fell off of my seat, almost landing on my back if not for the timely positioning of my elbows, heels resting upon the arm of the faded maroon furniture, legs bent uncomfortably, entangled in my long skirt.

She gave yet another shriek of surprise, rushing towards me. "My dearest, are you perfectly all right!"

Was I perfectly all right? _Was I perfectly all right?_ Oh, of course, madam, I reassure you I am _fine_; getting thrown into the archaic past, _stripped_ by men (of whom I am certain spend the majority of their working lives away from their wives), forced to take several vows of celibacy, and garnering several run-ins with guns was something I participated in on an almost daily basis.

"What do you _want_ from me?" I whined, shuffling backwards the better to stand. Sitting up, I rubbed the misused joints. I must have bruised quite a few bones during my little exploit of jumping off of strangers' furniture. "Oh, I don't _care_." I accepted her proffered hands, pulling myself up and offering no resistance as she guided me back to my seat. I looked up at her, standing over me as she wrung out her hands as an indication of pure anxiety. I wasn't certain if it was because of my new-founded love of self-affliction, my childishly needy behaviour, or the question I had abruptly thrown at her.

I turned away, looking down at my off-white lap, all the while patiently massaging my elbows and trying to push away the prickling sensation at the back of my eyes. I will _not_ bawl my eyes out: not if I was able to endear the rather unhealthy attachment of a pistol to my forehead without so much as a sniffle. When I felt that my eyeballs' water levels were down to their regular concentration, I looked up at the still-fidgeting figure of Molly Cleave and attempted a grin, although I grimaced more than anything. "You're not going to answer that question, are you, Moll? Is it inappropriate of me to call you by your given name?"

She shook her paler head. "Oh no, mademoiselle, absolutely not! Why, of course you can, _mam'selle— _"

This was getting ridiculous.

"I am not bloody French!" I snapped, causing her to start. Since when had I become the intimidator? "Listen, Mi— Madam Cleave, I am English. _English_. I come from a little island in the North Sea with horrific weather and rain and snow at the most _inappropriate_ times of year— I come from the home of the Union Jack, mushy peas, mince pies and Cockney accents! I come from a nation whose national anthem speaks of imploring a higher power saving unwanted sovereigns!

"I'm sorry, did I rant?"

Poor Miss Molly was spared an answer by the reappearance of Sara, the courteous maid with a cool glint in her eye and a heartless demeanour. She curtseyed, first to her mistress, then to myself. "Milady," she said, very formally, "the water is prepared, if you'll be so kind as to follow?"

I shook my head, ridding myself of any lingering waves of my tirade. "Yes… Of course, thank you…"

I could feel the heat rising ever further into my cheeks as I was led away from the poor, startled, seemingly well-meaning woman.

x!-x!x-

M. Duplain was, in short, a dressmaker. He was introduced to me when I'd considered myself sterile enough to leave the lukewarm water. Dressed only in a worn robe, with my hair dripping down my back, I was hurried down the short, rickety stairs and back into the drawing room, where I saw an elegant wigged Frenchman sipping English tea very daintily as he discussed something about how a _robe a l'anglaise_ would be quite a nice design for Madam Cleave's purposes.

"And _this_ is _Mlle._ de Victoire," he said coolly, taking my wet hand and planting an informal kiss on its back. He looked towards the maid standing obediently behind me. "You've given quite an accurate description of her colouring and features, Sara. I daresay we'll be able to find something suitable." This last was to Molly Cleave, who nodded.

"Suitable for _what_?" I pestered as he took out a tape and began measuring my waist, arms, hips, legs, etc. Unsurprisingly, he took no notice; simply jotted down the digits in a little notebook, nodded to Molly, and left.

When he'd returned a half hour later, he'd brought with him a little boy who carried a parcel of materials; various different cloths and even a couple of leather contraptions that looked suspiciously like corsets, with a pair of buckled shoes balanced on top. "I do believe these will be suitable for…formal use, _Madame_," he announced. "They're all second-hand, like you always require, although I could tailor these garments, if you'll only pay a little— "

"No, no, I assure you these will do fine; my, _Monsieur_, you've certainly outdone yourself this time," Miss Cleave remarked, snatching up the garments and looking at each one in awe. "These are either elaborate day gowns or insultingly simple ball gowns."

Duplain turned to look at me standing there, still in my soaked bathrobe, with a pitying tilt of his head. "There is no point in attempting to enhance commonplace beauty with exceptionally beautiful gowns, hence the reason I gave you only simple, common frocks before." He held out his hand as Moll counted out several silver coins from her purse. "I remembered receiving these gowns from a wealthy merchant's wife quite a few years ago; not the latest fashion, but as exquisite as they are, who will notice?"

I might have to kill myself if I receive one more compliment about my looks. Their obsession and references to beautiful women was…_disturbing_, to say the least. Ten to one they ran a brothel together. But leaving out that rather insignificant detail… I felt irritation and pleasure course through me in equal measure. "What is it about you people and pretty things!" I hissed at them both. "What do you like about me, anyway? Is it my hair or my teeth or something?"

They both exchanged a glance.

"Why are you both so hung up on my looks anyway?" I pestered.

Yet another meeting of the eyes. I stuck out my lower lip and scowled. "Fine," I muttered darkly, my hands on my hips as I turned away and walked towards a strategically placed window. It really was quite a quiet road, with the exception of a swift carriage near running over two wealthy young women in simple but expensively made gowns of light silk. I pointed to the strawberry blonde decked out in gold-patterned olive. "_That's_ nice," I informed whomever was listening. Turning my head, I saw that both man and woman had retreated to the sparsely-decorated foyer, conversing in low tones.

Apparently, no one. I could feel my scowl deepen.

Duplain nodded once, smiled at me, and exited with his errand boy trailing obediently behind him. Molly flew towards me, her simple gown of pale yellow material rustling. She clasped both my hands in hers, looking up at me in unaffected delight. "_Monsieur_ Duplain has informed me that he knows of a merchant ship bound for— Sara, pack all of mine and _Mlle._ de Victoire's belongings— for my elder sister's port of residence."

"That's nice," I said, suddenly struck by a completely random curiosity and ignoring all the blatant signs of impending doom. "Who's Jack Sparrow?"

Her green eyes were discrepant and uncertain. "I beg your pardon?"

"Jack," I persisted, not about to be deterred. "Jack Sparrow. The— " I skirted around the word 'hot' with practised ease "— pirate that had the sudden urge to— " _no_ innuendos please "abduct me?"

"Oh, I don't think he was trying to _abduct_ you, dear."

"But you said— " I let out a growl of frustration. "Whatever— _who's_ Jack Sparrow again?"

She gave me a look of horror. "You don't know who Jack Sparrow is!"

"No, so could you— "

"_Jack Sparrow?_ You, a young woman, _don't know who he is? Really?_"

"I'm afraid I don't, so can you kindly explain— "

"_Jack Sparrow?_"

"I'm not very familiar with— "

"_Really?_"

"If you'll take a moment to— "

"_You don't know who he is?_"

"Yes, I'll like more information regarding my potential captor— "

"_The_ Jack Sparrow?"

"_NO!_" I yelled, my patience snapping. "Why don't you shut up and bloody tell me instead of giving me permanent hearing damage!"

There was a pause in which she gathered her thoughts, her lower lip thrust outwards as she considered where to begin, and how much to say.

"Why, he's the one that kidnapped you, dear." I could _feel_ my jaw hit Australia. Or, more accurately, Tokyo. Damn, I missed sushi…

"Don't gawp like a fish, my dear. It's most unbecoming." My jaw was slowly unhinging, the force of gravity about to sever it from my face. "Now…" She paused, smoothing down her unwrinkled skirt. "I suppose you'll be wondering why I'm taking you to my sister…" she began.

"Nope."

Her olive eyes nearly detached themselves from her skull. It was very disturbing… "_Really?_" she exclaimed.

"Yes, really."

"You _really don't— "_

"Wait!" I interrupted, a sense of _déjà vu_ stamping out the Impending Doom (capitalisation required) that was holding up the flashing pink neon sign proclaiming it as such. A simple T-shirt would have sufficed… "Doesn't this sound a tad familiar?"

She looked at me in bafflement. "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I said— and you— we just— oh, fu— forget, _forget_ it!" I raised my hands, my fingers massaging my throbbing temples. God, I hope not everyone was this dense. Defeated, I asked, "Do I get pretty clothes?"

She smiled patronizingly. "Yes, dear, you get pretty clothes."

"Good." I sighed in exasperation. That's all I wanted." That, and my CDs, air-conditioning, electric fan, Frizz-Ease, Herbal Essences, body deodorant…

…But until I wake up…

My blue eyes looked at hers in weariness. "When do we leave?"

x!x-x!x-

The English ship left at high tide— or was it low? Whatever, it had something to do with the height of tidal waves. We were at sea near a fortnight, and unless you count the eight-hundred-and-sixty-five ways I threw up and passed out, nothing significant took place. Excepting the fact I now hated sailors and was almost sworn off of men for life and was seriously considering lesbianism, that is. Hey, Kevin and I could start a club. Except we weren't speaking to one another; something about my shame and humiliation…

When the ship finally weighed anchor, it was twilight, and the stars glittered in a mocking manner. I was half-dragged, with my pretty but mostly empty head spinning faster than a merry-go-round. Molly's left arm was wrapped tightly around my waist in support as she helped me walk towards solid ground.

Reaching the steady wooden dock, she set me down on a pile of crates and retraced her steps with a promise of swift return. I buried my face in my hands, attempting to keep my shoulders steady as I faced facts.

It wasn't a dream. I wasn't going to wake up at any moment to hear Janelle lecture me on indecent conduct. I would never again hear Sid Vicious insult the royal family, nor know the subtle miracle of hair straighteners. Well, what did you expect? A lament for my friends and family? Please…

Sniffling very slightly, I looked up, blinking my eyes rapidly and paying no heed to the spinning sensation within my cranium. Instead, I focused my eyes on the staggering sailors and local inhabitants of this little port town. My eyes focused on a glint of abnormally bright hair.

My head snapped up. My eyes widened. My jaw dropped.

It _couldn't— _It wasn't possible— How can it _be— _?

It was. It was her. I couldn't believe it.

And the man she was with— the one whose arm she dangled off of. I knew him too.

It was him.

The man.

The _pirate_.

Captain 'Yes, that _is_ a pistol in my pocket'.

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x!x-

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AN: Any guesses on the two people she spotted? Feel free to flame about how she goes on anout her looks: remember, this IS from Sierra's point of view, and I merely type what I think goes on in there… I'm just attempting to sound as pig-headed as possible, but she will grow up and change…eventually…

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CaptainTish: I'm glad you like my style; I'm actually only writing this to try out a different writing style instead of focusing on the plot, unlike my other fic… I shouldn't have said that bit about the plot, should I?

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jennifer123: Thanks— hey, are you laughing WITH me or AT me? Food for thought, no?

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andyeascrewyou: Hey, new reviewer! Danke schern, I aim to please!

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VagrantCandy: My first and loyal reader— I can't believe you're still here, but I'm happy, so, so happy! Glad you liked the clergy homage; that will give you a clue in exactly which part of the movie this is set; or rather, is it set in the movie at all? Hmm… One quick question: how can you hang on for so long? If it was me I'd either have forgotten all about it and moved on or just read and review… Don't get any ideas!

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Maria: Do you REALLY think so? I thought he was a bit OOC, but that could just be me and my incredibly low self-esteem that can only be kept up by reviews… (Hint to all) Glad you liked it; you have no idea how much your review means to me, besides getting weird looks from complete strangers after I finished my happy dance…

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Jess: If you're NOT going to review, but you ARE going to read, I'll like some input please! Oh, and good luck with Wednesday; you'll know I'd turned up because of the sudden whoop after your rendition of the PotC score…

Sorry if I missed anybody out! I highly doubt it though…


	9. The Pint And WHAT?

AN: What's this— an update in a less than a year? Let us gasp and faint in shock and horror.

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Eight: The Pint And WHAT!

But it couldn't be him— and it _definitely_ couldn't be _her_. It couldn't be _them!_ It was impossible! Not to mention sick, wrong, and _unnatural_. It was sick and wrong! Sick and wrong! Nauseating and…some other word for 'wrong'…

"Are you all right, dear?" Madam (she was too old to be referred to as 'Miss', and in no position whatsoever for the title of 'Mrs') Cleave inquired politely, her hand lightly touching my shoulder. Her olive eyes followed the direction of my gaze and she frowned, furrowing her brow. "Who is it, dearie?" she asked. "The man or the woman?" I turned to look at her in disbelief and saw her squinting, "He does look a tad familiar…" (To put down what my jaw did at this moment would be pointless.) She squinted further before letting out a gasp of surprise and recognition. "Oh my God…" she said, and I could sense her desire to Cross herself. "Oh, dear Lord…"

"Exactly!" I exclaimed.

"It can't be…"

"It is!" I confirmed, getting to my feet and pacing back and forth.

"_Friar Anderson?_"

I tripped over my long skirt in shock. "What the hell— ?"

"The priest," she explained in a patronizing manner whilst looking scandalised that I'd blasphemed with a clergyman so close. Well, not that close. "The one that went insane and attacked you, my dear."

I narrowed my eyes at her in disbelief. This was starting to get _very_ suspicious… "He's no priest," I said slowly, cautiously. "He's a pirate."

She let out a melodramatic gasp and staggered backwards, her hand clutched over her heart. "No!"

"_Yes!_"

"How do you know?" she challenged. Not for the first time I felt my jaw drop. It was going to snap off completely if I continued in this manner…

"You _told_ me!"

She gasped, offended. "I most certainly _did not!_ Why on earth would I wish to blacken a servant of God?"

"I don't know— Because he's a _pirate?_"

Shaking her head, she clucked her tongue reprovingly. "Now really, which scoundrel on God's green earth put that idea into your head?"

I had the sudden urge to hit my forehead against a very solid, sharp, and/or heavy object.

I had to settle for slamming my palm to my forehead instead. "Never mind…"

Molly frowned, looking past me. "Ah, here is our hired coach." She turned back to stare at a group of bemused sailors waiting patiently to move our various belongings. Well, to be more precise, most of the luggage was hers and what she saw fit to purchase/give me. Only one small, bedraggled, pathetic bundle was my own— and it was one I dare not open, for fear of discovery and pitchfork-wielding villagers.

Madam Cleave turned back after the giving of instructions and took my hand in both her own. "Come along, dearie," she beamed. "I'll like for you to meet my sister." And she gestured for me to climb in.

Clambering into the coach first, I immediately scooted over so as not to miss the show and stared out of the window. True, I never saw his face before— at least, not properly, and, seeing how his back was turned, definitely couldn't see his face now, but I knew it was him; I recognised his…_unusual_ hair.

Needless to say, he wasn't wearing the priest's habit he'd pilfered for our last date. From what I could gather of his back, he was wearing a faded blue coat— or was it purple? Could have been grey— navy breeches and brown boots, with a sword at his side. He also had a headscarf of a kind tying his wild hair presumably away from his face— a face I had the strongest urge to wallop. I guess there's just something about him…

The woman he was with— the one that had shook my very core at seeing _her_ here—— was facing her lover, and therefore, me. I could see her ethereal face clearly in prominent confirmation.

She wore a faded but evidently once-valuable dress of deep sapphire and pale blue, from what I could see under his arm, with the occasional streak of white and ivory lacing. Her shoulders were bare, her creamy skin exposed to its best advantage, and her hair in soft curls tumbling around her shoulders.

She looked celestial, otherworldly, an ice princess.

I wished to God she would melt.

I watched disdainfully as her left arm, holding a faded hat I was certain belonged to the pirate, wrapped around his neck, the other resting on his shoulder, smiling sweetly up at him, and saw his own hands (eagerly) returning the favour, pushing her backwards towards a seedy tavern. I saw her let out an uncharacteristic giggle.

I turned away in disgust so as not to see the apparently infamous Jack Sparrow Frenching my sister.

"Whore," I muttered under my breath as the door closed behind Madam Cleave and the carriage lurched forward with a jolt.

As we passed them, Molly leaned forward to the window. "Oh my, how _exciting— _will you look at that, my dear," she said pleasantly. "A pirate— you don't see a lot of those around, you know."

The collision between my forehead and wall _was not_ an accident.

x!x-x!x-

She wasn't Christa, but she was a whore, and I, for one, was ecstatic for _that_ fact. The hired coach had taken Molly and I to a large, respectable-looking establishment— a boarding house, but that was only a fraction of what it was. How I found that out was quite imbecilic, on my part; after all our baggage was unloaded and carried to a smooth polished door, Madam Cleave had stopped me short, hand on my forearm. I'd looked at her in confusion.

"What?"

She hesitated briefly before offering an explanation for her action.

"My sister and her husband run a bagnio and tavern in addition to a boarding-house," she said bluntly. "Is that alright with you?"

Not knowing what the hell a bagnio was, but not wishing to appear stupid, I nodded nonchalantly. "Sure, whatever," I said. "As long as I have somewhere to stay, I don't really care."

She gave a smile of unadulterated relief, telling me that in that case, everything was fine. The name of the building as we passed through the door should have given me a clue to my fate:

The Pint and Garter.

Nancy Spencer was a taller, slimmer, prettier version of her younger sister. She was in the middle of a meeting with a gentleman and his teenage daughter, but she soon dragged both her sister and I in with her.

"Mr Wright, you were saying that whilst you board with us, you wish for Miss Catherine to have a companion?" she asked. "Regardless of her… nocturnal commitments?"

Young Miss Catherine's cheeks turned scarlet, and her father gave a snort.

"Don't be so modest, girl," he spoke sharply, "your own mother was a mere Strand Miss herself when I first met her." My heart went out to the bullied girl, even though my thoughts remained firmly with the pirate and my sister.

"She's Parisian," Mrs Spencer put in quickly. I shot her sister an exasperated look and found myself wishing that pistol wasn't in a certain pirate's pocket…

"Her father was a wine merchant, and until his ruin and suicide she was schooled in a convent…" I just _knew_ that was going to come back to haunt me…

"I couldn't care less if she was Mary herself!" Wright snapped, his brown eyes flashing. They were a great contrast to his powered face and wig. "My daughter needs to learn where she came from. That's why I approached you, Mrs Spencer: I wanted a whore."

"Maybe you should just get her really hammered instead," I quipped, unable to resist such an obvious jest.

"…So she ran away with a sailor and walked the streets of London after her father shot himself," Mrs Spencer hurriedly fabricated to explain my undoubtedly high-brow accent. "St James, Drury Lane, Strand… situated in the West, she was. Moll's just arrived from England, haven't you, Moll?"

"Oh yes," her sister agreed. "Our father has just died, and I was merely retrieving his will and belongings…"

"Of course," Mr Wright dismissed doubtfully. "In any case, I'll be much happier if you were somehow able to open her eyes." The discussion continued in this vein for some time, with the eventual arrangement of Catherine and I chained together every afternoon. My evenings, I discovered, will be spent looking pretty and bedding as many men as possible; my mornings, cleaning up after and chasing out any lingering clientele.

Some things never changed.

And that was how I stumbled upon _him— _quite literally. But that comes in later.

The first night was spent sulking in my room (I was given time to 'settle in'). The next morning, as I begrudgingly swept away several glass shards from the dusty floor, I saw a very familiar figure sneak hesitantly out of the many rooms in this establishment. My heart filled with dread as my much-loathed sister spied me clutching onto the broom, wearing a faded skirt and bodice over a plain shift, my head covered with a mob-cap. The only thing remotely attention-grabbing was the long dangling earrings of entwined gold and silver I'd discovered in my random possessions; probably put in there by mistake, but I felt no inclination to correct such an error. She came towards me. When we were level with the other she stopped, scrutinising my face closely.

And then my heart suddenly stopped.

She was _smiling_ at me.

"You must be the new girl," she said, her voice as sweet as honey and too pure to be considered refined. "The one from Paris."

I gaped at her, processed her last words, and erupted. "I'm not bloody French!"

Her head snapped suddenly to her room in response to my yell, as though scared I'll disturb someone, and she looked suddenly back at me again. "Calm down, missy," she said, her bright blue eyes sparkling with amusement. "I know how you feel; they did the exact same thing to me."

I blinked— it was the only reaction I could muster. I never thought I'd have a civil conversation with my sister, let alone one involving the various tactics a procuress used to make her girls as desirable as possible. "How's that now?"

She paused, considering, before extending her delicate hand. "I'm Beth," she said warmly, "but to the entire population of Tortuga, including its visitors, I'm _Angeline_, the opera girl from Paris."

"The entire population of _where_?" I asked, uncertain I heard her correctly.

She looked at me in surprise. "Don't you know?" she asked. "You're in Tortuga."

"_Turtle?_"

"No," she corrected, "Tortuga." Clearly, she didn't know her Spanish reptiles.

"Same thing…"

She fell silent, looking at me, before her hand reached out for the cream cap I wore to keep my hair out of my face. (Yet _another_ gift from Molly Cleave…)

"You shouldn't hide your hair," she said, fingers repositioning a few wayward strands. "You should have it pulled back with a ribbon, like a man's; that would suit you." She furrowed her smooth brow in thought. "A lovelock would be nice, or maybe kiss-curls…"

"Thanks," I said, only knowing the first of her three hairstyling suggestions.

She smiled brightly at me. "But you do need curls," she decided. "I'll help you get ready tonight," she offered.

I was getting the feeling she was up to something… unless she _really_ wasn't Christa.

My grip tightened around my broom in confusion. "That _would_ be very kind of you…"

Her pearly smile widened, although her big blue eyes were full of understanding pity and compassion. "This must all be very hard for you…" she began. "You must be scared, coming into a brothel with absolutely no experience beforehand…"

I could feel my shoulders shaking with mirth, although my hurriedly lowered face prevented her from seeing the absolute mirth and disbelief written there. "That's very sweet of you," I told her chokingly, "but I'm trying not to… think about it until it's absolutely necessary. You know, what with the groping pigs and licentious sailors running amok that I'll have to face…

"Sleeping with complete strangers is something I've _never_ done before…"

"I understand," she said sympathetically, and I clenched my fist and held my breath. This was just too much!

As I trusted my facial muscles enough to raise my eyes to hers, I saw her smiling very prettily once again… and my laughter completely evaporated at the sight of her. "Well in any case, I'll just be going to the market." And with that simple farewell, she was gone, every step the epitome of elegance.

I stared after her in a state of comatose shock and envy.

She was _nice._

Too nice.

And… well, she did seem quite possessive about her room…

She could still be Christa. She could be hiding a time machine or witch doctor in her wardrobe for all I knew! Although why she'll want to bring us both to this time and place was completely lost on me…

That, or a devilishly handsome man she couldn't bear throwing out lay fast asleep on her bed.

But was the likelihood of the latter compared with the former? It _had_ to be the time machine. And I highly doubted she was with a particularly attractive man the night before, anyway… I think. I growled in frustration. _This_ was why I was so desperate to see his face: to see whether this belle who was potentially my sister had bedded a god or had a time machine stashed in her underwear drawer.

Gripping my broom like a safety blanket, I edged closer to her room. I stood at the door, resting my broom against the wall. I gripped the handle, paused, steeled myself, and swung her door open a crack.

Her room was pitch-black— her windows were shuttered tight. All I could see was the bare floor and Spartan wall. This door was inconveniently situated right in the corner— I couldn't even _see_ the window, let alone the bed. As I opened the door further and stepped into the room, I released the handle for only a second, but it was enough. The door slammed suddenly shut, causing me to jump as I was plunged into complete darkness. My hands stretched out in front of me as I tried to make my way to a candle or oil lantern. I couldn't exactly search her room blind, can I?

As my eyes adjusted to the inky blackness, I was able to make out the muffled glowing outline of the window on the invisible wall to my right. I stumbled blindly towards it…

…And that was when I fell on top of him. Believe it or not, it _was_ a genuine accident. Mostly.

My knees had slammed into the hard, solid frame of Beth's bed, and with a squeak I felt the left half of my body collapse onto the hard mattress of her bed, whilst the other half slammed into something warm, smooth, and firm: bare flesh.

The male body beneath me shifted under my unexpected weight with a groan, before positioning himself into a more comfortable position around my form. I felt an arm reach for my back, fingers lingering there before exhaustion caused the hand to fall and rest against my arse instead. Complete accident, I was certain. I didn't actually feel it at the time until I was out of the room and my head was clear enough to process exactly what had happened. But for the moment, I just lay there, surprised at my discovery, and contemplated my situation. "Oh God…" I muttered, burying the right side of my face further in what felt like a mass of tangled hair, "this is humiliating yet surprisingly comfortable…"

"I'll vouch for that," a half-tired, half-amused, but wholly recognisable voice came from beneath me. "But there's very little humiliation for me, if my lack of clothing is what ye were referring to…"

I leapt back from the bed in shock, landing painfully on the floor. I noticed that for some strange reason, my right ear was throbbing, but I paid the pulsing attribute no mind.

I heard an unexpected and completely incongruous clinking sound accompanying the rustling of bed sheets. "Are you all right there, love?" he asked in concern.

Only one thought was in my head: _Oh God, he's naked, dear Lord, he's naked…_ "You're naked," I blurted out.

He chuckled. "Aye, that I am. Is there a problem with that scenario?"

"No, no, no," I said whilst my mind triumphantly continued to chant that damn mantra: _Oh God, he's naked…_ "Nothing at all the matter, it's perfectly all right. I mean, obviously I wasn't prepared, I…"

Oh God, he's naked…

"Well, I wouldn't be either…" _Oh God, he's naked…_ "But I'm sure if the tables were turned, I might be willing to overlook the undoubted impropriety of _your_ nudity in favour of— "

"I'm sure you will," I interrupted hurriedly, having suddenly recovered and realising that I genuinely wished I really _did_ have a light of a kind. Oh dear, he was naked; oh _no_…

But responsibility and my new job description came first. "I'm really sorry," I said.

"I'm not," he commented. "Wait a minute— do I know you?"

Now _that_ was motivation for me. "No, I'm sure we've never met, you must be confusing me with someone else…" I said hurriedly.

I heard his feet hit the bare floorboards, and my song came rushing suddenly back: _Oh God, he's naked, dear Lord, he's naked._

"I'll just be going _right_ now." I said before he could take a step towards me, hurriedly scrambling to my feet.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

I backed towards the door, my skirts still well above my knees.

"Wait a moment, love, you've— "

I literally fell out of the door. Thankfully, it slammed shut, so I knew he could only get a glimpse of my face. Maybe not the same thing went for my underwear…

Well, I certainly learnt my lesson: don't ever sneak into rooms containing strange naked men.

x!x-x!x-

Beth did come into my room that evening, as promised, and shortly after I'd returned from babysitting Catherine. She came in a sparkling dress of various blues and lacing and edging of gold. She came with her silvery hair in soft curls spilling over her exposed shoulders, tiny ringlets of pale yellow framing her face. She came with a sweet smile and gentle greeting.

She came armed with curling tongs, and five minutes or so was spent chasing me around the tiny room with them in hand.

Only when my long skirt was caught on the edge of my bed did the useless chasing end, and I sat pouting whilst she carefully pulled my tresses around the heated tongs. She worked quickly, ensuring the metal never cooled down completely by placing them in the candle for a few seconds at carefully-timed intervals.

When my hair was curled to her satisfaction, she placed the slightly smoking implements carefully upon the table and began sorting through my unpacked trunk. She held up a corset in her hand in scorn. "Why on earth did she get you a _corset?_" she sniffed in disdain. "A stay would have been a great deal cheaper, not to mention sensible…"

"Stay?" I pounced in alarm. "As in farm?"

I could see her roll her eyes in disbelief but she indulged me. A stay, she explained, was a corset that laced up at the front instead of the back, and was sturdy enough to be worn as outerwear as well as underwear. An image of a stereotypical gypsy wench in a peasant blouse and bodice flashed before me. "Yes," she agreed when I voiced this thought to her, "but the bodice _is_ a kind of stay."

I allowed her to undress me to my shift and slip the corset around me, but protested when she began to tighten the laces. She knew how to get around _that_ obstacle with ease. "Trust me," she said, "there'll be no man down there who would protest to removing it for you."

The sleazy compliment was enough for me to happily allow her to cut off my air supply without another protestation. She then pulled out a gown of cerise, buttoning the little vermilion buttons at the side that had been designed to look like an ornamental row of beads outlining the maroon stomacher, before arranging my newly-curled hair around my shoulders. Stepping back, she looked me up and down. "You should be wearing a different petticoat," she remarked, meaning my simple white shift. "We'll look for it tomorrow." And before I could react she'd grabbed my hand and dragged me, gasping and wheezing and stumbling in so many layers of clothing, down the hall and stairs and into a crowded, brightly-lit room.

The tavern.

My warder was immediately called away to a particularly rowdy table, leaving me standing alone like an unsure idiot out of her own time period.

Five minutes of groping hands and sleazy catcalls later and I realized that even I, shameless wanton and scarlet (quite literally, at this precise moment in time) woman that I was, simply _could not_ deal with the cons of prostitution.

Or maybe it was the corset; my head was spinning, my eyes couldn't take the suddenly too-bright candles and the flickering blurs of the spirited patrons, nor my ears the continuous din of drunken yells, ribald comments, and raucous laughter of the men and delighted shrieks and screams of the whores.

I had to get out of there.

I fought my way through the boisterous crowd, literally wrenching myself from the wonderingly grabby hands.

I needed air.

Someone was able to pull me into his lap, laughing insanely with delight. I could smell alcohol on his rank breath, and disgusted, forced my legs to support me long enough to get out of range of his snatching hands. I heard him call me back, but I wouldn't— actually, I _couldn't— _obey his wishes.

I continued in this manner, pushing feebly against the crowd, until finally, miraculously, gratefully, I felt the noticeably cooler fresh night air upon my face.

My hammering heart slowed as I stood, hand resting against the doorframe for support, breathing heavily. The world slowly stopped spinning as my eyes took in the riotous populace walking the streets, bottles in hands as they stumbled in that delighted manner only pure inebriation can bring.

This was nice; this was calming. I felt as though a great proverbial weight was lifted off of my shoulders as my mind and body relaxed, feeling a wave of relief flood through me as, for the first time in weeks, I knew I was alone, truly alone: no scrutinising glances, no blatant stares, no spying eyes were on my red-clad form.

"It could just be the general opinion of the entire male population overall," a thrilled voice said behind me, "but I do believe I prefer you dressed as a strumpet a great deal better than as a nun."

!-

AN: Yes, Beth IS based on an animated Airhostess Barbie and IS meant to be annoyingly perky and helpful. Wait, wondering what happens to her ISN'T going to make you come back to this? Hmm…

**Jess:** I DO NOT HAVE AN OBSESSION WITH SHOVELS! Remember, all obsessions come in threes: fish, sheep, and fanfiction. And yes, my happy dance is an impersonation of a squirrel of steroids. I like doing random animal impersonations.

**Kaylakoo:** Hey, new reader! As you can see, you were half-right: she LOOKS like her, but alas she was not.

**jennifer123: **See? This IS sooner. It's also a LOT more. Who said I didn't love my reviewers?

**Maria:** But cliffies are so FUN...and it WAS kind of obvious...

**VagrantCandy:** Ah, yes... I don't do that. I just submit a few reviews and go quiet, which makes me a hypocrite, but hey, what can you do?


	10. The Case of the Misplaced Bedchamber

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AN: OK, I'm a little stuck on how to write the next chapter, so it'll probably take a little longer until my next update, and I'm not too fond of this chapter, without my BETA-reader to proofread it, so apologies if it's not up to my normal standards. It's also a LOT shorter than the last, but that was just a one-off deal…

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

_Chapter Nine: The Case of the Misplaced Bedchamber_

I whirled around, letting out a shriek of surprise, and immediately regretted it. The damnable corset meant that not only was my breathing capacity limited normally, but doubly so when I did certain things the corsetry industry fail to take into account when designing these garments. Spinning around 180 degrees and having a heart attack was clearly one of these events.

"Easy there, missy," he advised, stepping closer to me and partially entering the circle of light cast by the candles from within the Pint and Garter (how they actually gave a building such a name was beyond me).

I kept my eyes closed, my hand resting against my frantically beating heart as I gasped to oxygenate my lungs. When I'd open them after realising that it was a futile hope and the only way to survive without the constricting underwear was to take it off, I found the apparently legendary pirate that had unknowingly been stalking me for the past month or so staring a little north of my plunging décolleté;.

But not that much further north.

Not feeling at all bothered or affronted but very, _very_ flattered, I let my hand drop so as not to obstruct his view of my corset-enhanced cleavage, and took my first _real_ look at him.

The first thing I noticed about him was his hat. I recognised it as the hat Beth had been holding only the night before, and I observed it immediately because, unlike my apparently new friend, I did follow the Code of Ogling Etiquette, and it clearly stated that the decorous beginning point of eyeballing was the face. I classed it as annoying; the code as there are times when one wishes to stare immediately at the legs or chest or… some other nondescript bodily appendage, and the hat as he'd had it on at such an angle that it cast a shadow over the rest of his features, so that all I could see was the tip of an elegant nose, lips curled up in a grin that I instantly classed as kissable, a soft unobtrusive moustache, and two dark beaded braids hanging from his chin. Clearly, his hair wasn't his only eccentric attribute. Strangely enough, I found I didn't much care…

It's amazing how I can make all of these funny little observations of mine without interfering thoughts about the damnable corset. I can't believe that it's true, but I found myself wishing that Madam Cleave _hadn't_ spent so much on my clothing…

I forced a smile to my lips as it slowly dawned on Jack Sparrow that there was more to this ex-nun than a pair of great breasts, leaning back against the wall of the Garter for support in a seemingly casual manner. I could feel that sense of claustrophobia come rushing back as he calmly observed the rest of my person, taking in my deep scarlet dress and the white petticoat peeking out through the upside-down 'V', before his roving eyes finally stopped upon my face.

"So tell me," he said, striding towards me with a confident sway, "exactly _what_ are you?" He twisted one of my new curls around one of his long fingers. "'Cause frankly, _Mademoiselle_ de Victoire, I'm not certain if I should point you to the nearest chapel, tie you up and hold you ransom, or just forego those formalities and kiss you right now."

I noted his address towards me in exasperation. "Oh God, not you too," I groaned, a hand slamming into my forehead.

He cocked his head in disappointment. "Now you see, brides of Christ are a tad more difficult to bed than say, a harlot or a _very_ grateful gentlewoman…" he began.

"I don't mean this in an offensive manner, sir," I gasped out, "but I think I might need a little more room to breathe…"

"I've got something for you," he said bluntly. The sudden statement nearly made me collapse then and there.

"That's so sweet," I said, trying to keep my voice level. "Can you give it to me a foot away?"

He clucked his tongue in disapproval, shaking his head. There was that strange jingling sound again. "Well I never!" he exclaimed. His suddenly animated hands nearly hit me across the jaw. "Sincerest of apologies," he said insincerely, "but surely your parents raised you better than that?"

"My parents didn't raise me at all," I muttered, before I completely lost the battle of the corset and fell into him.

"Well that was faster than I'd anticipated," he joked, instinctively grabbing my shoulders. He looked down at me in concern. He was a good few inches taller than me, even with these minute cramping shoes with their attached tormenting heels. "Perhaps we should take this inside," he began.

"My room?" I gasped, my vision beginning to blur ever so slightly. So it wasn't very much in keeping with my normally tactful seductive style, but what did I care? I _was_ a whore now, and it's better to embrace the fact sooner than later… and _God_ I wanted that corset removed.

"Now _that's_ fast," he approved, wrapping an arm easily around my narrowed waist.

We were greeted by Beth when we'd re-entered the tavern. It was kind of hard _not_ to notice the sparkling goddess with the entourage of a thousand drooling worshippers flanking her. "Oh, so I see you've found one another," she said pleasantly, her azure dress slightly creased and unbuttoned, her hair tousled and her cheeks flushed prettily. "Were you right, Jack? Is she— "

If I wasn't wearing a corset, I would have stood by and listened to discover what trait or quality of mine had prompted the pair to such a profound discussion. As it was, I was, and it was mostly Beth's fault. I grabbed Jack's hand in irritation, hearing him chuckle in amusement as he was willingly dragged away by me.

There was one more slight obstacle. It came in the form of two sisters, one tall and slender whilst the other was short and squat, both dirty-blondes, and both deliberately blocking the staircase. They both smiled as we approached. "Ain't she a fine one, sir?" Nancy Spencer inquired of Jack, hand held out expectantly for coins. "Fresh out of a Parisian convent, and as pure as— "

"Yeah right," I interrupted crankily, releasing Jack's wrist and crossing my arms as I pouted.

"Oh, Nance, she's so adorable," Molly Cleave cooed as Jack Sparrow dropped the silver pieces carelessly into Mrs Spencer's outstretched hand. "Heavens, where did you find her?"

My jaw was always dropping around this woman. I had reason to believe she possessed a defective memory.

For a change, it was Jack that led me up the stairs. "Now," he said as we reached the first landing, "exactly _where_ is your bedroom, _ma chere?_"

"Um…" I couldn't remember the precise co-ordinates in my nigh-fainting state.

He whipped his head wildly around, eyes opened wide. "Don't tell me you don't know where your room is!"

"Why should I? You've guessed it in one."

"Women!" he said, throwing up his hands in disgust.

"I'm new!" I defended. "I've only been here since yesterday, and I… God, you're really horny right now, aren't you?"

"Well…" He paused. "So you _honestly_ have _no idea_ where your room is?"

"I've narrowed it down, if that helps any," I said. "It could be over there," I waved my hand to the left in a vague manner. "_Or,_" I continued, "down there." I waved my hand to the right.

Jack looked up and down the single landing. "That's not narrowing it down in the conventional sense of the phrase, sweetheart," he informed me. "Just my bloody luck as well…" he muttered.

There was an embarrassed pause. Finally deciding to risk passing out all because a pretty blonde thought a reduced waistline was _à la mode,_ I let out a sheepish apology. "But it's not such a bad thing," I said, ignoring his snort of derision. "Maybe we can… talk instead," I said, sounding pathetic to myself as I knew that conversation was the last thing he wanted from me.

He looked up at me in horror. "_Talk?_"

I shrugged, trying to hide my embarrassment. When I dragged him up here so very impatiently, it wasn't with the objective to gossip in mind. "Well, you know, seeing how we're going to sleep together anyway— "

"Could have fooled me," he muttered, and I felt irritation well up inside me. Men only ever had _one thing_ on their mind…

"We should probably get to know each other beforehand anyway," I finished.

He just stared at me.

"Well, who are you, exactly, anyway?" I said, although of course, I already knew. However, I knew men just _adored_ talking about the following subjects: themselves, sport, themselves, cars, themselves, sex, themselves…

He gave a crooked grin, and I noticed a sparkle of gold. Now normally, I found men who'd lost their teeth in a fight or something, or just decided to cap their tooth to look 'hard' a turn-off, but _he_ seemed able to pull it off without losing my interest in him. "Captain Jack Sparrow, milady," he replied ceremoniously, sweeping off his hat as he made a mock bow and causing my lips to tug upwards ever so slightly.

He straightened, looking into my eyes, and I felt myself growing fainter.

I remembered how desperately I wanted to see his face. Now that I had, I almost wished I hadn't. He was… flawless. His eyes, a rich deep brown set off agreeably against his tan skin, were sensually outlined in black kohl, and sparkled with mischievous intelligence. His wild hair was tied back from his face with a faded red headscarf, and strands of his ebony hair were braided and beaded, causing the jingling I'd heard twice before. All my love-struck-mind could think was that espionage must be a bitch as far as he was concerned.

"Captain?" I pounced. "Of what?" He just stepped closer, and I _knew_ I was going to swoon into his arms. It was the corset, I swear!

"I guess you already know my name," I blurted out, unable to think of anything intelligent whilst this god was looking at me with those eyes of his like that. His smirk had me stuck between two equally powerful impulses:

to just let myself go and faint then and there;  
to jump on him.

"Aye," he confirmed, "Beth talks too much— sometimes for her own good. Although I must admit, in this instant, I'm glad that she did."

"Yeah, I'm glad too," I agreed. A smirk found its way to my lips. "I see you remembered to dress yourself this time."

"Ah, so it _was_ you!" he exclaimed triumphantly.

"Well, who did you think it was? Madam Cleave?" I saw him visibly shudder, and laughed.

"I'll probably have been crushed if it was," he replied. I felt his hand sneak around my waist and rest upon my lower back as he pulled me closer. I knew the increased breathing rate had nothing to do with the corset this time.

"That's really unfair, comparing her weight to mine," I was able rasp out. I could feel his breath on my lower lip, and felt my eyelids beginning to close as my lips instinctively parted.

"It'll always be unfair to any woman in the world if I compare her to you," he said in a quiet, assured manner as I slipped further and further away from rationality.

"That's such a line." But it didn't stop me from letting him bend his head towards mine in a gentle kiss.

"We can use Beth's room," he whispered as he placed fleeting kisses on my skin. His lips were soft and encouraging, his words aphrodisiacal manipulation. "She never does if she can avoid it." He could have been talking about the pros and cons of poached eggs as opposed to scrambled, and I still would have let him lead me down the corridor into the silvery-haired woman's room.

I'd stopped thinking completely. I'd forgotten he'd threatened me, forgotten that the only reason he was here with me was because Beth was occupied downstairs, forgotten about the sweltering heat and tormenting corset. I'd forgotten I was stuck in the past, forgotten I'd been reduced to a common whore and that he'd _paid_ for my company, forgotten that I was completely vulnerable and helpless. All I wanted was to kiss every inch of him and run my hands through his thick hair until morning came. I felt the universe shrink to just the two of us and the night to follow. I felt the familiar old thrill of an impending conquest. I felt the familiar delight and assurance of knowing I was beautiful enough to be wanted by a man, to exert a certain amount of power and influence over him that other women may be lacking, even if it was only for one night.

How was I meant to know, as the door slammed shut behind me, that everything would seem very different come morning?

****

x!x-

AN: But wait, nothing's ever THAT easy, rest assured… Remember, this is, in a sense, a simple business transaction… There's absolutely NO romance on Jack's part, poor girl…

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jennifer123: Was this anything like you expected? Personally I wasn't too fond of this chapter, but it does get everything I wanted done… However, I do think the next chapter will make up for this, I just hope it's not too painful to read through!

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VagrantCandy: Oh, I think you've jinxed it… I think it might take me a year to get the next chapter written! But moving on… Beth's meant to be sweet and kind and considerate and disturbingly so, hence the whole Airhostess Barbie thing. Does that come across?

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Maria: Cliffies are fun for all, not just the writer… Talk about an anticlimax, huh? I really liked the last chapter, and this just didn't seem to come out quite like I wanted… Oh well, better luck next time.


	11. Black Pearls

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any of the literary works mentioned in this chapter. They're either Daniel Defoe's or John Exquemelin's, and last I checked I wasn't a seventeenth-century man…

**AN:** Three scenes, two cliff-hangers, nine pages on Microsoft Works Word Processor. Go.

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

__

Chapter Ten: Black Pearls

Beth woke me up. She poked me on the nose many times in an endearing yet annoying manner and I told her to get lost before I located a nondescript object of adequate weight and size with which to strike her skull.

"_You're_ in _my_ room," she said, sounding confused. "Sweetheart, you've no right to be in here. Why are you here?"

I groaned into the pillow, pulling the thin blanket back up over my shoulder blades. "Turn out the lights…"

"No," she said firmly, pulling her coverlet firmly from my body. I let out a shriek as I felt the complete lack of cloth against my skin.

"What the hell are you doing!" I sat up, my arm crossed over my chest as my other hand grasped for the rough piece of cotton that she held tantalizingly out of reach.

She surveyed my predicament in amusement, golden eyebrows raised in a patronising manner. "Getting you up and out of my bed," she said cheerfully, throwing me my off-white chemise. It landed unceremoniously on my head, and I felt myself scowling as the homespun cotton settled around me.

"_Why?_" I whined as I slipped it (with difficulty) over my head and began to do up the buttons.

"Because you're late," she explained, "and I want my bed back."

"You can have your damned bed," I growled, running my hands through my hair. I was surprised to feel the sweat on my fingers. All I could remember was a corseting adventure I never hoped to repeat; some groping, leering…

Sex with a complete stranger?

No, not exactly…

"Oh my God," I whispered, horrified.

I saw Beth tilt her head in concern as she stood watching me. Taking a few steps forward, she sat beside me with her hand placed delicately on my shoulder. "What's wrong, Sierra?" she asked in a confidential manner. "Was it him?"

I looked at her in confusion. "What?" Then comprehension slowly dawned. "Yes, but not really…"

"You can tell me, you know," she continued. "It's not like I have anyone to go running to."

"There's really no point," I said. I felt my stomach twisting inside out, no doubt getting entangled with an intestine or two in the process.

"Sierra…"

"No, really," I assured her, "I'm fine." The arching of an eyebrow told me she wasn't convinced. To be honest, I wasn't either…

"Don't you trust me, sweetheart?" she asked, her eyes wide and pleading. God, we even had the same eye colour… Why was I so sure we weren't siblings?

"Of course I do," I lied. "I just… don't want to talk about it."

"So there _is_ something," she pounced.

"Yes," I admitted. "However, it's nothing of importance…"

"Yes it is," she countered, grabbing my shoulders and forcing me to face her the better to read my face. "You're not happy here," she stated. "I sent the nicest man I knew for you to seduce because I didn't want you hurt or upset for your first night, and you're just going to have to deal with whatever it is that's upsetting you and get over it, because, Sierra, you won't be leaving here anytime soon, all right? Now get out of my room."

I glared at her, feeling an overwhelming sense of loathing. "Oh, and I suppose you've tried it, have you?" I asked sarcastically. "Trying to get out?"

Something flickered deep in her blue eyes, but she remained silent. So I decided that I didn't care enough to find out and moved on to another aspect of her speech. "'Sent the nicest man you knew for me to seduce'?" I snatched. "You needn't have bothered, hon. I wasn't exactly a Vestal Virgin before I got here. _Sent?_"

She lowered her eyes. "Well, not exactly…" I waited patiently for her to continue. I noticed how her gaze darted towards the door in suspicion. "I just didn't try to stop him when he saw you last night…"

"And he'd have listened to you if you did?" I finished in disbelief.

"I don't feel comfortable participating in this discussion," she ended abruptly, pulling away from me. I realized that her lower lip was shaking as she backed away towards her door. "Five minutes for you to find your room and dress, and then you need to go to that Wright girl," she said. "Apparently, she's undertaking a singing lesson, and she would like your unbiased opinion." I shuddered, instantly forgetting Beth's emotional reaction. Yesterday Catherine Wright was visited by a dancing master and kept treading on my toes…

Her door slammed shut in my face. I sat there staring after this emotionally-unstable prostitute for perhaps two minutes before leaping up to open that visually-impairing slab of wood in order to yell at her to come back and help me locate my bedroom as I was geographically retarded, but she'd already disappeared.

Kicking the wall in frustration, I stubbed my already-sore toes and spent about two minutes hopping on one foot and yelling my head off. When the pain had subsided, I decided that Beth's discourteous commands could be ignored for another two hours or so.

Only then did I notice the hesitant black-haired girl standing a few feet away from me, her thumb stuck firmly in her mouth as she looked fearfully up at me. A child in a brothel? OK, so maybe it didn't sound so strange when I put it like that…

But she was really adorable, this blue-eyed brat.

"Hey there, honey," I said gently, "come here." She looked up at me with wide cerulean eyes. I smiled down at her. "Don't worry," I said gently, "I won't bite."

She continued to stare up at me. I held out my hand, palm up, and beckoned. "Come here," I cooed, kneeling down to be on a less-threatening level with the girl. "What's your name, darling?"

She stared at the floor, her small golden hands knotting her worn blue dress, and mumbled a syllable.

"What's that?" I asked affectionately. I have to admit, I'm not a lover of children, but then again, I hadn't spent much of my life around this particular variant of the human species to find out much about them, basics aside. Who, knows, I might have a gift with the tykes…

She didn't reply to my question, but she did edge closer.

"Do you know where your mother is?" I continued interrogating the kid.

"Mama?" she repeated quietly, looking up at me with her adorable eyes. She shook her head. "She went away… I don't know where…" Her hand reached up to fidget with a round polished stone hanging around her neck on a piece of black cord.

"Did she say anything to you?" The little girl shook her head, her silky hair settling around her shoulders.

"I'm not supposed to speak to strangers…" she trailed off. I hated that rule.

"Don't you trust me?"

Her thin shoulders lifted in a shrug. "I don't know…" Her sweet eyes met mine in unnerving certainty. "Can I?" That was not a reply I expected from a girl who could be no more than seven years of age. The change that overcame her caught me off guard; she'd suddenly transformed from a lost, bewildered little girl to some pretentious, precocious self-assured… person.

"Of course you can," I assured her, wondering what I could do to find this suddenly arrogant brat's mother.

"What's _your_ name?" she politely challenged.

"Sierra…" I informed her, suddenly full of suspicion.

"Sierra?" she parroted, somehow amused. Her eyes sparkled maliciously. "Are you Spanish?"

Wait a minute… I wanted the Brothers Grimm's wondering Gretel back; I had a very bad feeling about this…

"Why do you ask?"

"It… sounds it," she averted with unexpected skill. I raised a cynical eyebrow. "What?" she said innocently, switching back to her lost-little-girl persona. Now if anyone else had said it, _no one_ would have been convinced. But on this nameless little girl… Just give her time. She'll grow out of it.

"_You_ know Spanish?" I asked dubiously.

The sudden grin was ferocious and feral. But in a cute way. "Do I?" she asked a tad too naïvely.

I sighed. "Oh please God, don't tell me I'm losing a battle of wits to a six-year-old."

"I'll be eight next month," she corrected. "Does that lessen the blow?"

My mouth hung open as I looked at her in indignation. Strangely, I didn't feel at all offended. Just very, very amused. "Do you really not know where your mother is?"

"Mama?" So she was actually sincere about that part, at least. I was beginning to suspect that she was a Martian in disguise…

"Yeah."

Once again, shaking her head in the negative. Her hands slowly reached for my left hand, wrapping the slender fingers around my own. "Why don't I stay with you? She'll come and get me during the day; you don't need to worry about being stuck with me."

"I'll love to, honey, but I can't," I said sincerely. "Really. But I already have… plans." If unwillingly impairing my hearing for life could be classed as a plan.

Her pretty face fell. "Shame," she said. "I was really looking forward to discussing Spanish geography further with you."

The little—

"What if I just stayed in your room until she comes back?"

"Doing what?" I said suspiciously. She released my hand and turned, picking up two books, one worn and the other relatively new, although noticeably thinner. "_The True-Born Englishman_," she said by way of explanation. "And Exquemelin's _Buccaneers of America_."

I just gaped at her in horror.

"Well it's not like I'm reading _Conjugal Lewdness_ or _Religious Courtship_!" she defended. "And I happen to think William of Orange is a fine king of England, even if he can't speak the language!"

I just continued to stare.

"You should pray that the wind doesn't change. That's not the most flattering of facial expressions." She tucked both volumes under one arm. "And if you must know, it's only because I won't be given _Robinson Crusoe_ until I'm well-versed in—"

"I get it, I get it, you're a child prodigy in love with books!" My head was beginning to throb from arguing with this… _kid_. This was very worrying…

She surveyed me in amusement. "Here's one question only you can answer, because I, frankly, don't know."

Finally! I looked at her a tad too eagerly. She smiled sweetly.

"So tell me, Sierra," she inquired brightly. "Exactly where is your room?"

Um…

x-x

"How long have you been here?" I interrogated. The girl shrunk away from my voice.

"Only a month or so…" she answered. "Should I start a key higher this time, _monsieur_?" I winced at the improper pronunciation of the French word.

"_Mon Dieu_, please don't!" The Frenchman all but begged.

"Don't do it." I advised as she took a deep breath. "Listen to your teacher; just don't—" She let out a shrill note that rang in my ears. Her singing instructor covered his ears in despair—or was that pain?

"Can't you take five minutes to answer my question?"

"_Oui_!" The brown-haired Frenchman agreed enthusiastically. "You can't strain your voice too greatly, _mam'selle_, half an hour's rest will do you good."

"I only need five minutes," I reminded him.

"You _need_ half an hour. No, no, too short—no less than an hour will suffice." Oh, you think I don't see through your transparent ploy, _mon ami_? I know exactly what you're thinking…

"What am I meant to do for sixty minutes? Talk to her whilst you hang yourself from the church's rafters?"

He looked at me in shock. "How did you know that!"

"Feminine intuition?"

"Very well," Catherine relented bitterly. "I need to finish that Defoe poem Father keeps insisting I read, in any case."

With various exclamations of divine intervention, the singing master, Arblé , I think, very gracefully exited the room.

"What is it?" Catherine said, tucking a brown strand behind her ear. "How long I've been here, you asked? A month."

"Right," I agreed, patting the empty space next to me on the small couch. "Sit."

She did, straightening her skirts and adjusting her bodice. "Have you noticed anything strange?"

"I tend to stay away from the more… unsavoury areas of this… establishment, Miss."

I sighed. "So you haven't noticed a very pretty, disturbingly intelligent eight-year-old girl wondering the halls?"

"Not that I can remember, no," she admitted. "Is that all you ask?"

"I think so," I said, settling back on the furniture. "Wait a minute, no."

"Well… What else is there?"

"What do you know about Jack Sparrow?"

"Well I've reason to believe he's a pirate that—"

"Besides all that," I cut short.

"He… sacked Nassau Port without firing a single shot?" She ventured, looking expectantly up at me.

I resisted the urge to stamp my feet. "I mean, have you heard anything _interesting_ about him?"

"Do I know anything interesting about Jack Sparrow?" she wondered. "He's a ruthless, cold-hearted, murderous, raping arsonist with a penchant for chocolate, I believe."

"…Chocolate?"

"Oh, yes." She nodded vigorously, happy she was able to bring this lesser-known fact to light. "He looted a ship carrying vast amounts of cocoa bound for Paris only last week."

"_Chocolate_?"

"Well it certainly wasn't the first time he'd raided a ship with a valuable amount of cocoa in its cargo hold." She smiled at me. "That most certainly is an interesting observation, don't you find?"

I smirked impishly at her. "Maybe he has some secret buried chocolate fetish…" I began, and froze.

It wasn't my fault! I honestly didn't mean to! I was helpless; but I _really_ couldn't stop the mental image that flashed vividly before my eyes, even if he did _pay_ for that night… That was what I regretted. That all he'll ever see me as is a common whore he'd had for one night. And that was all any man will ever see now; a slut working in a brothel, a street corner decoration, a streetwalker…

But I suppose there were advantages of my sleeping with Jack Sparrow, besides the obvious. Clearly, there was the element of comfort, of reassurance, a method to distract myself from all of this _crap_ that's happened to me in the last month or so. And the less-important result was that I didn't see him as Jack Sparrow, a pirate I'm meant to worship and hold in awe and reverence and the highest regard; now I saw him as Jack Sparrow… a mortal man I didn't actually need to pay any attention to. I know it's a very masculine attitude, respecting someone until you get them into bed, but I just couldn't help it. And besides, he was just like the celebrities you see pasted all over fashion magazines, if you think about it: unbelievably handsome, known by all, hated by some, worshipped by most… Hell, maybe people who lay eyes on him for the first time thought he was shorter in person as well, although he did seem pretty tall to me.

But, on a lighter note…

"Say I sleep him, Cathy." Her cheeks immediately heated. "Oh, grow up, you'll be doing it too."

"Sharing a bed with… a pirate? Oh, I see…" She squirmed. "Yes. Well. It's perfectly acceptable, and it's to be expected; I'll be married. But that's perfectly legitimate and moral, not like… Well…"

"Mortal sins aside, say that, hypothetically speaking, he just… I don't know, followed me from inside a tavern and propositioned me outside in an idealistically romantic atmosphere, with the stars shining above and cool breeze blowing in my hair, the candles from within the buildings casting a golden glow upon just the two of us—"

"Sounds like a cheap, unrealistic, amateur romance novel," Catherine put in.

"Yeah, well that's how it happened—happens, I mean, so just accept it. Anyway, what would you do?"

"Slap him for thinking so lowly of my virtue, then raise the hue and cry and tell them that this criminal had tried to force himself upon me—"

"But what if he backs off," I interrupted.

"He wouldn't," Catherine disagreed. "The man's dirt, the lowest of the low. He wouldn't hesitate in taking a woman against her will, particularly a beautiful one."

"And you know this because…" I led her on.

She looked at me, affronted. "You don't believe me, do you? Well, only a month ago or so he'd raped and then murdered a woman. There were witnesses."

I felt my blood go cold. Surely I hadn't been seduced by a rapist? "What… What do you mean? Who was this woman?"

"Oh, she was nobody, a commoner, but she was meant to be very beautiful, God rest her soul," Catherine said, instinctively making the Sign of the Cross. "It's quite an interesting tale, actually; he used her as some kind of shield against members of His Majesty's Arms, and then he kidnapped her and raped her and God knows how he killed her… Her body was never found."

Something just didn't add up. "So no one's actually _tried_ to find this woman?"

"Why would they?" she snorted. "She was very beautiful, but she didn't have any friends. She was only in Trinidad for a short while; no one's actually cared enough to look for her."

"So how do they know she's dead?"

"Because she never returned to the convent," Catherine replied as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Jack Sparrow murdered a bride of Christ, Miss Sierra."

That murdered bride was me! I nearly collapsed in hysterics, but controlled myself. "So she was the only woman he'd ever forced?"

"Oh, there have probably been more," Catherine dismissed. "But to my knowledge, yes. She is the only one." I felt so special… Apparently, I was Jack Sparrow's only known rape victim. If 'rape' was the actual word…

"What was she like, this nun? Do you know that?"

"Some of the officers' reports say that she was terrified, and who wouldn't be? But Jack Sparrow, on the other hand…"

"Yes…?" I prodded. She looked up at me, her cheeks turning even redder.

"Well, like I said, she was a beautiful woman… I believe the exact quote was 'He was having the time of his life'."

"He'd better have had," I muttered. "Is that all you can tell me? That he has a chocolate fetish and is a serial rapist?"

Catherine paused, furrowing her brow as she thought hard. "There's a ship," she said. "A legend. You may have heard of it. It's called the _Black Pearl_." Strangely enough, it didn't ring any bells…

I just shook my head. "No. Is that his ship?" He did say something about captaincy, now that I think about it.

"That's just the thing. He has no ship. Well, obviously, he's had ships, but none that he's stuck with…" Catherine looked expectantly into my eyes. "There's a woman here," she confided. "Her name is Bethany… something or other. Sometimes we talk. She's a wonderful person, even if she is… like you." Charming. It seems Beth's amiability was legendary. "Well, she claims that this ship—it's cursed, by the way—is _his_, and Sparrow will never rest until it is returned to him."

"Who captains this ship now, then?"

Catherine's eyes widened. "No one knows," she informed me. "No one knows anything about the _Pearl_ or its damned crew." The name _Pearl_ was beginning to sound very familiar to me.

"Wow," I breathed. Yes, I was aware of the fact that Jack Sparrow was a mere mortal after spending a few hours under him, thank you very much, but this whole legend with the _Black Pearl_… It was just something I'd never heard of before, and just so _original_.

"So tell me, Miss Sierra," Catherine interjected, "what does this little girl have to do with Jack Sparrow?"

"I've told you before; nothing," I replied. But her face suddenly flashed before my eyes.

What was she fidgeting with? Her necklace. What was her necklace? A piece of string with a small polished stone.

But what if that wasn't a stone? What if her pendent was something else entirely?

And her name; what was her name? One simple syllable that I didn't quite catch, a name rarely used, but not at all foreign or unusual…

And her mother? She was waiting outside the door, this little girl… She was waiting outside _Beth's_ door…

And Beth herself had said that she'd _sent_ Jack to me… What made her so certain that Jack would have listened if she'd disagreed to his spending the night with me? What was her bargaining chip?

And finally, what did the infamous Jack Sparrow say to me only last night? _"We can use Beth's room. She never does if she can avoid it."_

What I'd taken to be a small polished stone dangling from a cord was in fact a pearl.

A black pearl.

The little girl's name was Pearl.

x-x-x-x

"Wait a minute," Janelle interrupted, the shoddy connection sounding worse on Sierra's mobile. "Now you see, there's something you told me that doesn't quite add up with what you wrote."

"What?" Sierra indulged whilst wondering if this madwoman had ever heard of 'Hello, is this a bad time?'

"I said that this doesn't add up with what you—"

"No, no, I heard you," the brunette explained, fighting the urge to tell the redhead to call her at a more convenient time in the morning and let her head fall back on the beckoning pillow. "But I just don't know what you're talking about."

"The love of your life."

Now she knew that there was something wrong with the connection. "What do you want to know? I slept with him, isn't that obvious?" She couldn't believe that the American had called her in the wee hours of the morning to ask a question of such a personal nature. Well, in this case, anyway…

"No, idiot, I'm not talking about your relationship with Jack, I'm talking about…"

This really was some case of 'no signal'. "What?"

More white noise. "…_death_."

She sat bolt upright, and cursed as her forehead hit the inconveniently-placed shelf above the narrow bed. _Oh, how I hate London's contractors…_

"His… death?" she choked out. _She couldn't be talking about—_

"Sierra? Honey, are you OK?" The fuzzy voice on the other end of line sounded suspiciously concerned…

"Get to the point," she snapped icily.

"I just… wanted to know if you're putting it in there," the well-meaning Barbadian started hesitantly.

"Put _what_ in?"

"How he died!"

Silence.

"How… How he died in your arms…" Oh, how she despised Janelle's flawless memory.

"What sort of idiotic question is _that_?" she choked out. "I'm trying to _forget_, you fool."

"Oh, so you're not going to put down that the first man you truly cared about died for you, _because_ of you?"

"Nope."

"How accurate is this historically-accurate sh…" More static, but she got the gist. "…novelette going to be?"

"Oh, very accurate. Exceptionally accurate, barring certain details I choose to omit for fear of corrupting the public and randy schoolboys."

"And painting yourself in a less than flattering light?" the excavator added. The static did not censor scorn, unfortunately.

"Less than flattering—" she began incredulously. God, that shelf _was_ inconveniently-placed. "I'm a complete bitch! And if I _was_ trying to twist the story to suit my own ends, I'd have said something about how I resisted prostitution and looked down upon it, and I'd have made _everyone_ hate Molly Cleave for being a procuress, and I _wouldn't_ have mentioned getting kicked out of Oxford, and—"

"Yes, but none of those things actually make people hate…" She hated how backward the technological advances of today were. "…it's him dying and you _causing_ it that would make everyone turn against you."

There was absolutely no response, but Janelle didn't need one. She probably _heard_ her friend shaking on the other end.

__

This girl is pathetic, the redhead thought irritably. "You can't just pretend it never happened, sweetheart. That's usually a very important event in a person's life, what you're trying to cut out. You _have_ to put in that he dies. "

****

x!x-

AN: Wow… a double-cliff-hanger. You hate me, don't you? Onward ho with reviewer responses; they're more important than, say, the death of any characters…

**Maria:** Aw, you're so sweet… Are you intentionally trying to boost my self-esteem, or are you just a genuinely nice person? I'd hug you if I knew where you lived, had means of transportation to get there, and you didn't call the cops when a stranger hiding very innocently in the bushes jumped on you…

**jennifer123:** Aren't we all jealous? She just… doesn't know what she's got. And she's not taking it too badly is she? Anyway… Yeah, that does seem to be it, although the fact that she was trying not to faint on the spot is my excuse for her lack of observation. Or maybe my brain wasn't working, I just typed it up, proof-read it and posted, so I don't know… This is what happens when you let your BETA-readers out of their cages long enough to escape to Europe… 'Just stepping out for some air'. Yeah, right…

**MariAmber:** Wow, thanks, I'm so flattered. Glad you like the story. BTW, I quite like the idea you have for High Class. Sorry I didn't review, but I have this random mental disorder that makes me HAVE to log in for reviews, and the Internet likes not logging me in… Don't ask, I don't really know the answer… I'm just nuts…

**Homewreaker:** Thank you so much. Actually, I'm surprised anyone can get through the first five chapters or so without falling asleep on the keyboard for the complete lack of action, so go you for getting as far as you did!

**VagrantCandy:** If it's any consolation, I know exactly where this story is going, but I suppose that should be expected… It's just going to take a LONG time to get there, and there's at least seven more plot twists coming up, plus this proverbial atomic bomb I'm leaving right until the epilogue… I really shouldn't be telling you this. Oh well. By the time we've gotten to the epilogue you'd probably have forgotten… Moving on… It seems as though Beth's ulterior motive is finally unveiled, huh?

**Jess:** You saw the last chapter; now compare it with this, which YOU helped with, and tell me this; on a scale of 1 - 10 of how desperately I need you, 1 being pretty badly and 10 being my life depends upon it, how far off scale do I rank? Don't ever traipse off to the continent again. Now, what is the plan with Amy's skirt? I still need to get that smell out; I found myself unable to loot my father's washing machine last night as I was too busy force-feeding my sister Shakespeare… Jess, help me, the Amyfication has begun! PS Please review.


	12. Pearl, Interrupted

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AN: Judging from the majority of the reviews I received (all two of them), I somehow gave off the, ahem, _misleading_ impression that Jack dies. Don't worry, no one dies for another fifty chapters. Except for a cat, but that's designed for comic effect…

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Eleven: Pearl, Interrupted

"How the hell do you expect any of this to be remotely accurate if you…" More of that beloved static. "…and the fact that he _dies_!" an irate voice hissed as soon as she'd answered her phone. Janelle.

"You know, there _is_ a reason why I hung up on you—"

"You can't tell me what to do! I'm just trying to be a good friend and help—"

"By driving me to the point of suicide? Again?"

"Hey, that was a really blunt kitchen knife… And you got over it eventually…" There was a hesitant pause. "You _did_ get over it, right?"

There was that white noise again. "Did you say something?" Sierra asked.

"No," she lied. "Playful banter. Nothing meaningful, nothing of significance…" _Although I'm never leaving you in a kitchen, on a cliff, or near an electrical wall socket unsupervised ever again…_ "But you're putting in he dies."

"Oh no I'm not. I'm giving everyone a happy ending. It's a stereotypical story, if you think about it; why not give them the stereotypical ending?"

"Stereotypical ending?" Janelle echoed in disbelief.

"Uh huh. I'm going to twist it all so that we all go sailing into the sunset and live happily ever after."

"Even though the complete opposite is true?"

Static. "…truth? Everyone's going to think it's all fiction anyway…"

"You're not stereotyping this novel, princess."

"But it's so normal and predictable—"

A snort worked its way through the static. "Oh no, you're right," the unsurprisingly sarcastic voice said. "It's a typical love story: boy meets girl. Boy sleeps with girl. Girl has numerous affairs, amongst other things. Boy kidnaps girl. Girl impersonates French countess… Yep, you can just see what's coming next…"

"I never impersonated anyone!" she defended. "Just because people thought I was her—"

"Honey, your nose has just shrunk back to its regular size: stop lying."

The brunette shook her head. "I'm not putting it in, Janelle. Please don't make me."

There was only silence. And then the American said gently, "You're not putting in your affair with Andrew, are you? You're not even going to _mention_ the others…"

"Janelle, please…"

"This was what I meant when I said you're trying to make yourself look good. You cheated on Jack at least twice, and—"

"You don't know what it was like! You weren't there!" She could feel the tears beginning to form. "He had a kid, for God's sake… What, was I meant to close my eyes and trust everything would work out to _my_ advantage?"

"Why not?" she could hear the nonchalant shrug. "Change all the names. Censor them out if you have to. Or leave them in and pretend it was all a work of fiction you just conjured up. Why the hell…" Was it the distance or the phone, or intervening fate? "…one's gonna believe it anyway…"

There was a yawn from London. "If I promise I'll write in everything—and I mean _everything_—can I _please_ get some sleep?"

"_Only_ if you put in everything." The American said firmly.

"I will…" the Englishwoman whined.

"And that is?" Janelle demanded.

"I _promise_ I'll put in Andrew," Sierra vowed.

There was a clatter as Janelle leapt up in shock. "That's _it_!" she exclaimed. "You're not putting in the naval aristocrat, or that Dutch merchant guy?"

"The _part-Dutch_ merchant guy wasn't really that serious," Sierra justified, her eyelids subduing to the laws of gravity. "He wasn't actually a threat; he was just really cute…"

There was a pause. "Yeah, compared with the other two, he was just one of many…"

"And you know, I might not even have to mention him…"

"_Sierra_…"

"I'm not exactly planning on calling it 'Sierra's Sailors', and writing a list…"

"But the Dutch guy was, like, a catalyst; he's pretty important. What, you're just going to make it that Jack woke up one morning and just decided…" _Le bruit blanc_, ladies and gentleman, strikes again. "…and it's actually getting serious—"

"Well, I'm just saying this isn't a who's who of piracy." Sierra yawned. "Must I put in everyone I sleep with? I agree when you say death's a very important part of one's life, but this…"

"There can't have been that many," Janelle reasoned.

Sierra raised a doubting eyebrow. "I was a whore for five months. There were at _least_ twenty-five…"

"See, that's not that bad…"

"Where I wasn't sharing the client…"

A pause.

"You never… told me about that… Wait a minute, you're just trying to weird me out so I'll leave you alone!" She caught on fast, didn't she? "OK, put in the piratical privateer, that lieutenant you threw yourself at, and the Chinese-Dutchman—"

"How many times do I have to say it? _Singaporean_: I met him in Singapore."

"But you see, the Chinese didn't migrate to, well, _anywhere_ until the nineteenth century, and you said yourself you didn't see a lot of Oriental people who claimed to be native. Besides, Singapore's native population hail from Malaysia; therefore they tend to be darker-skinned and—"

"Good_night_, Janelle."

x-x-x-x

I let out a shriek of surprise as the door swung open unexpectedly and clasped my unbuttoned black chemise tightly to my chest, gasping for breath.

"So this is your room," the man commented upon entering. His child waved innocently at me, her blue eyes alight with mischief. "See, it's not that far from your ma's…" He said to her.

"Thank you for knocking, it was very considerate of you," I told him bitingly. "Hey there, honey; how've you've been?"

"Not too bad," Jack replied, pushing the little girl forward.

She paused and turned back to look curiously up at him. "Oh, Mama's gonna kill you…" she sang.

He ignored her, focusing on me. "I guess I'll be seeing more of you tonight, aye?" he said conversationally.

Turning my back to him in order to finish dressing myself, I murmured, "Yeah, maybe… Perhaps… I don't know…" My eyes fell upon Pearl, who had disappeared beneath my bed. I noted this strange behaviour with only slight surprise. "I wouldn't be wrong in guessing she's yours?" I added to change the topic.

I could actually hear him raise his eyebrow in surprise; clearly, he wasn't used to being rejected by common whores.

"Yes!" came the ecstatic little answer from beneath my bed. I turned to see Jack visibly wince, before he muttered darkly, "Oh, you've done it now, haven't you, poppet?"

"Yes!" replied the little girl enthusiastically. I chuckled, gathering all of my hair and wringing out the water into the movable little bathtub. I was uncomfortably aware of Jack's dark eyes on me. At any other time, I would have been thrilled, but right now, with my position as whore and his daughter fishing under my bed… Well, it just felt degrading. And wrong. And immoral, but that's never stopped me before.

"I take it there's a reason you're here?"

"My books!" Pearl answered just as her father opened his mouth. "And Daddy wants to bribe you. Or seduce you." Her head popped out from under the bedstead, her shining hair messed from her book-hunting and she smiled sweetly up at me. "I forget…" she shrugged apologetically.

"That's it," Jack cut through. In three seconds, he'd knelt beside his daughter and hoisted her up with the use of her elbow. "You. Out. Now."

"Ah, so it was seduction," Pearl said triumphantly. "You can do better than that, don't you think?"

I narrowed my eyes at her. "Hey!"

"I was talking to you," she salvaged with skill.

"_Out_." And he'd literally picked up the seven-year-old; tucked her under one arm and dropped her outside my room.

"I'll tell Ma!" she threatened.

"You run along and do that," he permitted, and instantly slammed the door shut in her face. He turned instantly back to me, and I swallowed nervously.

"I _will_ tell her you know!"

We both ignored the threat. "How did you get in here?" I asked him, sitting on the bed and leaning back against the pillows whilst I stretched out my abused legs; babysitting Sparrow's offspring was no mean feat when one had to do the complete opposite of sitting. "I'm certain Spencer has men hired to… guard the premises?"

"Oh, she does," he concurred, striding leisurely towards me. "But when they're not busy terrorising the girls, they're drunk off their arses."

"Not the only one, I see." I was referring to the drunken, almost feminine sway of his hips as he'd walked. Last night I'd just put it down to good ole inebriation, but now, with his becoming features and characteristics illuminated with the harsh unflattering light of day, I was beginning to wonder if he wasn't a closet drag queen. I wouldn't be surprised; I always ended up falling for the gay guys.

"Sea legs, love; plain and simple," he explained, sitting beside me. From my angle, he looked utterly alluring; my room was lit only from the bright afternoon sunlight filtering through the single window above my head; the rays of light fell directly onto Jack's tanned face, illuminating his every feature in what was meant to be a harsh manner. He really was a piece of work; how could anyone so conventionally handsome also look so… eccentric?

I realised I was staring at his lips. Which, by the way, were pulled back in a smug grin. I tore my eyes away a little too hastily, meeting his amused eyes.

"How much longer will you be in there, Papa?" Yup, he was _definitely_ cringing this time.

"What are you so bleedin' impatient for?" he retorted, though there was a glint of amusement deep in his chocolate eyes.

"What are _you_ still doing here?" I queried. "Trying to bribe me?"

"I _will_ tell her!"

Jack merely shrugged. "Why would I bribe you?"

"I'm not bluffing! Daddy!"

He rolled his eyes. "Kids…" he muttered.

"I honestly wouldn't know," I supplied.

"I'll go and tell her right now!"

"I don't think I _want_ to know…" I added, looking pointedly at the door. "Your daughter's _mean_…"

"Gets it from her mother's side," he sidestepped.

"You have until the count of five…"

We both looked at each in discomfort. "Do you _want_ her to tell Beth?" I queried.

"One…"

"Exactly what's that going to achieve?" he asked. "Beth doesn't actually care as long as Pearl's happy."

As if on cue, a whining, pitiable voice sniffled, "I'll cry…"

I just winced. "Ouch. Emotional blackmail."

"Two… My eyes are beginning to water…"

"Is it ever…" he grumbled, standing.

"Three… I'll start sobbing…"

"What does she mean about you attempting to bribe me?" I asked.

"Four… Pouting now…"

"Oh just imagine how cute she looks," I cooed.

"Don't," he advised. "It never helps your case. _And_ it's terrifying as hell…"

"Four and a half…"

"Go!" I suggested, standing myself and pushing him along. "Let me get dressed at least…"

"Four and three quarters… The tears are starting to fall…"

Like a loyal butler, I swung the door open for the reluctant father. And aided his offspring in hurling herself upon her parent in the process. "Daddy!"

"She's so adorable…" I sighed, my hands resting on the door.

"You're not the one being throttled," he threw at me, though his arms had immediately encircled her small form, therefore preventing her from moving, even if she wanted to. Which doesn't seem to be the case. "Have you got everything, lil' lass?" he asked her.

"I think so…" she answered endearingly.

"What were her books doing in here, may I ask?" he turned to me.

"I couldn't find Mama," she sang happily. "And Sierra said I could stay here until someone found me."

I did? When? Hmm… Little liar.

He merely looked at Pearl suspiciously. She just looked back, eyes wide with unnervingly convincing innocence. How _does_ she pull that off?

"Regardless," he reprimanded, "you should apologise to this lovely lady for causing her such inconvenience."

"Her?" I snatched. "It was _you_ who burst in on me dressing!"

"That may be true," he amended, "but _I'm_ not sorry."

"And _she_ is?" I asked doubtfully.

"Oh yes," he said, with a pointed look at his daughter. "Profoundly so."

"Am not!" she pouted. Cuteness. _Bloodcurdling_ cuteness. "_I_ don't cause any trouble…"

"No, she was fine," I assured, sounding for all the world like a reluctant, last-minute, _unpaid_ babysitter.

"See?" she confirmed. "It's you that's causing all the disturbance, following all the pretty girls around like a dog in heat."

I just stared at her in comatose shock, before I turned my accusing gaze to the only man within my vicinity. "I didn't say anything!" he exclaimed, hands raised. Well, his hands would have been raised, had a disturbingly cute monkey not wrapped herself around his chest. "It's all her mother's fault!"

"That's your excuse for everything, isn't it?" I asked.

"Brat just knows everything…" he mumbled humbly.

"Yes, I do," she agreed.

We exchanged brief glances of farewell, though Jack's eyes lingered on mine for a moment or two before quickly lowering to my low décolletage.

"_Daddy_…"

"Fine," he turned away, casting an annoyed glance at his daughter. "Spoil my fun."

"What fun? I really don't know what you're talking about, Papa. I'm not even eight yet…" I could just picture the way too innocent look on her face as she said that.

I shut the door and leaned against it, letting a smile cross my lips as I recalled the brief interlude that had just occurred. I think I'd gotten to know Pearl better in the past three minutes than anyone else the whole time I'd been here. I recalled her sweet smile, her innocent bright blue eyes, and her angelic smooth face.

He's right. That kid is scary…

x!x-

AN: Just a filler chapter today; some character development on Pearl's part… Feel sorry for Jack yet?

jennifer123: (innocently) Kill him? I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about… Our beta-reader has no air, and she won't be getting any anytime soon… Are you more freaked out by the kid now than before? I mean, I based her off of my little sister, so that could be why…

VagrantCandy: No, it really didn't… I like writing this, and my beta-reader gives me a lot of encouragement and won't give me permission to stop, AND she has a very sharp penknife and very big head-sized blender, not to mention her pyromania… How the hell do I get associated with these people?

GalaxiaDawn: Thanks, glad you like the story. I hope you've read this far, otherwise this note is pointless…


	13. Parental Guidance

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AN: Oh, don't reprimand me for this later update. I didn't wait 12 months this time round, did I?

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Twelve: Parental Guidance

You mightn't think it strange that I was able to adjust so effortlessly to prostitution; that I was able to make the seamless transition from wanton to whore. What you _might_ find a tad unusual was that I was able to make the metamorphosis from the freer, more liberated, technologically-enhanced cash-flowing world I was raised in to that of the interior of an eighteenth-century bordello. Or seventeenth. I never exactly asked for the date. In any case, I think now might be a good time to give up a little secret: my mother and father were very traditional. _Very_ traditional. As in, Victorian double standards of sexual conduct, knight in shining armour, brainless daughter to pawn into marriage with a member of the aristocracy traditional. Traditional as in, forbid your son to marry a slut unless you knocked her up (my sister-in-law fell pregnant not long after our father threatened to write my brother out of his will when he announced they were engaged—a very convenient time to go off the pill, Katie) pimp your daughter to a titled politician, and my personal favourite, the disownment and renunciation of your other daughter after stumbling across her sexual transgression traditional. Do you see what I'm getting at?

But really, Tortuga to me was like independence incarnate: I could do whatever I want, dress however I want, and say whatever I want. (Of course, I was for one reason or another forbidden to leave the Garter, and according to Mrs Spencer I was in debt because of the food, clothes and board that had in actuality been _forced_ upon me, but let's overlook that minute detail.) It wasn't only me; everybody I'd encountered were completely at liberty, free to act how they liked, commit as many crimes as could be wished for, and come and go to their heart's content.

There was only one human being I'd met who was physically, _literally_ restrained, and that was only because _one_ other person wished it so. I am, of course, talking about Jack Sparrow and his cosseted yet renegade dissenter of a daughter.

It was only the morning after I'd come face to face with father and daughter that it happened. Somebody had broken, or rather, was in the middle of breaking orders that had been firmly given:

"NO!"

I jerked awake. The athletic body next to mine twitched ever so slightly, its comforting warmth only centimetres from mine.

"Please don't shout… I'm really sorry… I won't do it again, I promise…" The replying voice sounded so small and afraid.

"You're _always_ saying that…"

"And I always _mean_ it…" I could imagine the speaker's embarrassed eyes look towards the floor in guilt and shame.

"What the…" My lover, it seemed, had awoken. He pulled me closer to him. "That voice sounds very familiar…" I felt him furrow his brow against my shoulder. "Can't place the other though…"

"What are you—oh no you don't sweetheart, _let go_." The second speaker was continuing to provide us both with brief and tantalizing commentaries on the events beyond the door.

"_No!_"

"Oh hell…"

Reluctantly slipping the comfortable arm off of my hip, I was able to grab my chemise, hurriedly discarded the night before, and slip it on before making my way to the scene of such sleep deprivation on unsteady legs. I slipped the door open just a crack.

My worst fears were immediately confirmed: illuminated in the faint glowing light of dawn filtering from the few windows spread throughout the hall was Jack Sparrow and his endearing daughter locked together in a tug of war, the father's coat the ultimate prize. Because she was so small and seemed so very, very innocent, one tended to forget that she was as stubborn as a donkey and as agile as a monkey. She wore a simple cotton nightdress, and her bare feet were completely unprotected against the splintering wood of the floor. Perhaps it was this last that prevented the man from simply dragging his daughter across the floor.

"_Pearl_…" His voice was quiet, but there was a faint undertone of danger, and more than a slight hint of anger.

"I won't!" she shrieked. He visibly winced. "You're only here for a day or two and then you go away for _months!_" she justified. "And it's my birthday soon…" she sniffled. That face, those sincere tears… I'd only known her for one day and was already willing to give in to her every whim; how could her father stand a chance?

By replacing his heart with stone, that's how. With one final wrench he'd pulled her clean off of her tiny feet. Surprised, she released the weathered garment and fell back with a yelp of surprise that soon turned into a cry of pain. I instinctively gasped in alarm, the callous movement completely unexpected.

Jack's eyes instantly turned towards me; I saw his lips part in surprise.

One fatal mistake too many.

True to my metaphor of a monkey, Pearl had swiftly recovered from her brief but indubitably painful fall and had latched herself to her father's legs. I could sense his suppression of various curses and oaths alike as he tried—and failed—to kick her off. He did manage to get one leg free though. That was an improvement.

"_Fine_," he accepted through gritted teeth, and attempted to simply walk away, obviously with the belief that getting unwillingly towed across the floor would not agree with his daughter. She simply tightened her grip around his leg and let her nightdress gather dust as she was hauled across the landing.

I felt nausea slowly creep over me; surely this was a form of child abuse, even if the child in question had inflicted it upon herself?

Jack appeared to be thinking along the same lines; he'd only taken four dragging steps before what was either concern for his daughter's well-being or sheer exasperation (seemingly the latter) stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at the little hitchhiker, so small and sweet, with an expression of profound annoyance… and what faintly resembled grudging affection.

"Don't go, don't go, don't _go_," Pearl pleaded adorably. I could actually _hear_ the tears in her voice.

The faint creaking of the floorboard behind me, and the strong arms suddenly encircling my waist, alerted me to the appearance of a fellow spectator.

Jack's only response was to use his sheathed sword as a lever, as a means of prying this most lovable of nuisances off of his limbs—the same way he might use a crowbar to force a treasure chest open, in fact, and with much the same zeal.

It would have been very funny had I not felt so very sorry for the attention-seeking, love-deprived girl.

Whether it was the sword's leverage, acceptance of defeat or sheer exhaustion, Pearl finally released her captive from his inescapable prison, falling backwards into a sitting position. She said nothing, but merely looked up at him with doleful blue eyes.

"That's my girl," he approved disinterestedly, beginning to move away. Then, as if on reflection, he turned back, and rather indifferently patted her on the head. Pearl refused to move, staring straight ahead.

Jack's eyes didn't take notice of this worrying behaviour. They were fixed directly upon me, with an expression of impassive distance. His face had closed up completely; I had difficulty in reading his expression, but I received the distinct, completely illogical impression that he hated me. Irrational, I know; there was absolutely nothing between us, nothing I had done to stir up such an emotion in him. He even smiled at me, politely but warmly, and touched the tip of his tricorn hat in a mock salute, before he turned away and left the motionless child sitting on the floor, with her arms wrapped firmly around her knees.

But I still received the distinct impression that he wasn't very fond of me.

I watched as Pearl stared after the retreating figure, as still as a statue, until the sound of his footsteps died away into silence. Then, trembling, she slowly forced herself to stand, her back towards me, her shoulders shaking. Her hand went to cover her face as she sniffled. I watched as she lifted up her skirt ever so slightly above her bare feet, looking down at her right ankle. She tried gingerly to take a step, let out a cry, and collapsed.

Arms released me as I lunged forwards, my sudden action catching even me off guard. Now, I don't think I'd ever actually been very fond of little children, but this little Sparrow did work wonders on former principles.

Her head turned sharply at the sound of my approaching footsteps. "Hello," she greeted quietly as I knelt beside her. I noticed immediately how her hands covered her right ankle. But I also knew that the tears threatening to spill from her eyes were not caused by any physical pain.

"Hi honey," I replied, kneeling down beside her. Cautiously, my hands pulled her soft ebony hair away from her eyes. It was unbelievable; twenty-four hours ago I had no idea of her existence, and now here I was, tucking her hair behind her ears and trying to offer her comfort.

"Is she yours?" a male voice asked me. His tone was not condescending, or mocking, or any other unsavoury emotion; just simple curiosity. "Who's the father?"

I turned to look up at my bed partner; he was partly dressed in dove-grey breeches and an off-white silken shirt, unbuttoned to his abdomen and setting off his hair, shorter and fairer than Jack's; a mixture of golds and coppers and browns. When I'd met him last night, it was pulled back with an immaculate black ribbon; now it simply tumbled around his arrogantly handsome face, setting off his lightly tanned skin.

"No," I replied, shaking myself out of my stare. "She's… a friend's." I paused. "Jack Sparrow's."

His olive eyes widened, but he immediately recovered control of his facial features. "Oh," was all he could comment upon the subject.

His reaction made me smile. "Yeah," I agreed, before turning back to my charge. "I'm guessing you won't be able to go find Beth, huh?"

Pearl merely shrugged. "She's always busy," she explained with childlike simplicity I had not expected from her. "I thought you knew that; I never have more than five minutes a day with her."

My fingers involuntarily reached up to stroke her cheek, only a shade or two darker than Beth's glowing ivory, feeling her soft skin beneath my fingertips. "Are you hurt?"

"No," she lied. I narrowed my eyes at her in the same manner her father did. She wasn't in the mood for fun and games; all of her energies were still going towards her not crying. "A little," she allowed.

"Can you walk?"

"It's only a bruise… I'll be fine in an hour or two…"

I sighed. Most kids _relished_ having attention lavished upon them. As always, it seems, Pearl was the sole exception. "Do you want to stay with me again? I can always find you… a book to read at a more civilised hour," I offered lamely. Slowly, she nodded.

"Might I offer my assistance in the care of such a fine young lady?" my unnamed lover gallantly inquired. "Carry her, for instance?"

I looked up at him, feeling discomfort colouring my features. "I'm afraid we'll have to cut short our plans…" I began as an apology, but he waved such notions away.

"It's perfectly acceptable in the circumstances," he approved good-naturedly, already striding towards us. "As long as you let me lie in this morning… and buy me breakfast… and serve it to me in bed…"

"Just pick up the kid," I cut short before he could issue any more conditions. He smiled at me.

Stooping, he cradled her easily in his arms. "Morning to you," he said pleasantly. I saw her nose wrinkle despite her tear-flooded eyes at being addressed in such a condescending tone. "Sweet little pest, aren't you, interrupting my time with the lovely Sierra there? How old are you, mite? Six?"

"_Eight next month_," she grinded out, clearly detesting his patronizing manner.

"Really? You're a lucky girl, aren't you?" he continued, moving back towards my room.

Although the threat of tears seemed to be growing ever more precarious, she was able to get her grief under enough control to shoot me a disbelieving stare. "I don't like you," she mumbled, "you're _mean_."

"That's right, lass." Pearl didn't reply, remaining silent. I followed the pair back into my room, closing the door tightly shut behind us.

I watched as my client gently settled her down on my bed, taking a pillow to prop up her faintly swollen ankle. He sat down upon the mattress with a defeated air. "Don't s'pose I could have that lie-in now, do you?" he complained bitterly at me.

"Yeah, well I need my beauty sleep," I countered. He grinned impishly up at me.

"Then don't invite me to your bed," he said simply.

A suppressed sniffle silenced our banter. And then, a very small, timid voice whispered, "Sierra?"

"What is it, hon?" I replied, moving closer to her.

"Can you hold me? Just until I go back to sleep." Her tone was desperate, quiet with pleading. "It's just that… Mama never does… And Papa does only if he can't find a whore first."

"She knows that word? She—she knows what it _means?_" My little conquest seemed to have slipped into a state of shock. "She _knows_ that word?"

"Oh, shut up," Pearl and I snapped at him in annoyance. He backed away, hands raised in defence, and settled for the only chair as a bed, slumping immediately like a marionette devoid of its strings. I was certain he'd fallen asleep immediately.

I looked back down at Pearl. I knew that the reason she wanted to be held by me was because she wanted a shoulder to cry into; she wanted someone to comfort her… she wanted to feel loved. And, well, I was a lot more favourable in comparison to a man she'd met only two minutes who in that time period had belittled her to the point of what she, with her greatly-developed intelligence and sense of importance (I _wonder_ where she'd gotten that trait from) considered simply as an insult.

Sitting down upon the mattress, I leaned against the small wooden headboard, effectively in a comfortable sitting position. Pearl whispered a quiet "Thank you", crawling towards me and wincing ever so slightly at the pain in her ankle. She leaned her soft head against my stomach, her arms wrapped lightly around my waist, and she finally permitted herself to quietly cry.

My fingers entwined themselves in her silky hair, gently stroking her head until her breathing slowed, her sobs subsiding, and the shaking of her shoulders ceased altogether.

It was only when she let out a contented sigh that I realised she was asleep. I smiled down at her, continuing to stroke her hair. "You're very manipulative, you know?" I said to her. "Where did you learn to do that so well?" It was a rhetorical question, of course, but I found myself pondering upon its answer.

I was, of course, thinking about Jack Sparrow. But it was more than that; I kept picturing in my mind the dirty look he'd given me before it was suddenly replaced by a deceptively sincere smile, and exactly what I could have unwittingly done to have offended him. He didn't strike me as a man who would be anything but charming and amiable unless he had a reason to do otherwise.

He didn't strike me as that type of man at all. Which just leaves the question:

What sort of man _was_ he?

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x!x-

AN: Once again, another filler, a bit of rambling, but I kind of wanted to establish the type of relationship I think Jack would have with his daughter; I just didn't see him as being the doting, devoted type. Any comments?

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Maria: Ouch. I just hate it when that happens; for the past three weeks or so my Internet connection's died as well, but I know for a fact that my mother couldn't have done it: computers scare the living daylights out of her. So I just blamed a virus instead. I still don't know what caused it, but the point is it's back, which means that now I can download dangerous virus-infected files to my heart's content, and not rely on my beta-reader to update, like I once had the mistake of doing… Evil things happened. Anyway, welcome back!

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VagrantCandy: No, seriously. They poke me on a daily basis. With imaginary pitchforks: IMAGINARY PITCHFORKS. You cannot begin to understand my pain. Or annoyance, for that matter…

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LXGFanGirl: Thank you oh so very, very much; what do you think of Pearl's character now that I've anti-aged her a bit?

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jennifer123: Aw, thanks, I do try. No really, it's hard. Time-travel MIGHT happen one day; isn't there a scientific theory saying it was possible? I think it's something to do with dust bunnies… oh I know that's not right. As for the cheating… what would you say if I told you he deserved it and actually encouraged her into it and it was all his fault? Well, some of it… a little… not really, no, but then again… I can't really say anymore on that; I think I'll just let you interpret that as you will; feel free to comment. And BTW, are you going to update your fic sometime, or do you need help? If yes, I'll be willing throw you ideas and the occasional rotting tomato… or I'll just tap-dance on your skull until I drive you crazy.

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Jess: Let's get one thing straight here: You. Have. A Blender of Sacred Proportions. And there is no way your apology sounds REMOTELY like me; I use the early modern English native to Mr Defoe, thank you very much. I mean, if you're going to sound like me, do not use such wording as 'anyway', 'beg', 'fact', etc. :P It's just not like me. Here's what the apology would have been like had I written it: "My Dear Baker's Daughter, It is with the most humble of dispositions that I beseech your clemency in matters regarding my foolish error concerning the publication of this chapter, under your name, and the assessment (if my short-hand response could be regarded as such a divine article) of it, also under your name, as your connection to the World Wide Web had been unpredictably and unjustly severed, rendering both yourself and the Devil incarnate to a primitive time and place, each with only the other as company. An act of cruelty on your part in regards to this most humble and sincere of contritions shall force me upon no other path than that taken to exact revenge and condemn us both to eternal sorrow; in short, to distinguish A—'s views, at liberty, as correct in comparison to those of yours. I have the honour to be, Your most humble and faithful of servants, Miss J— S—." There; take that.


	14. Beth’s Sacrifice

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AN: I'm conducting a survey; raise your hand if you like little Pearl Sparrow… All of you? Then I pity you all for what I have in store…

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Thirteen: Beth's Sacrifice

I'd discovered the reason as to why Beth neglected Pearl in the horrendous manner that she did: she was too busy seducing the straight-laced Mr Wright—the father of that irritating creature under the delusion that she could sing, Catherine.

"I hate merchants," she complained bitterly to me, running a brush through Pearl's onyx strands.

"Ow," the child complained, revelling in the attention.

"They just come sailing in on their fine _lawful_ ships and expect us womenfolk to fawn over them and _worship_ them," the blonde continued her tirade. "I've _had_ it with _men_."

"Oh my _God_ woman," I groaned, burying myself further into my pillow. Beth had burst in on me this morning, obviously with the intention of discovering the precise whereabouts of the father of her child… and hopefully the child as well. Well one out of two isn't bad… "I just want to get _some_ semblance of rest around here…"

"No you don—_ow_." Another tug of the primitive hair straightener.

"You're lucky Spencer thinks you need more experience before she sends you off to one of her other bordellos," Beth said.

"Ow!"

I suppressed a yawn. "At any other time I would be positively dying with curiosity," I mumbled. "But I've had a hectic day and night, and now if you'll be so obliging, I want to drop dead…"

"Oh, you're no fun at all," Beth huffed, her blue eyes upon my unmoving form.

"Mama," Pearl suddenly whined, "Mama, why are you never with me? What is it that you _do?_"

"We've had this discussion before, Pearl," the woman said in a warning tone.

"And why did you name me after your husband's ship?" she demanded.

"He's not my husband!" I heard the righteous anger mounting in the woman's voice. "Don't be so absurd; we both know you're not stupid."

"You always say that so defensively…" I could hear the faintest trace of triumph in the little Sparrow's voice; the entire eight-year-old façade she wore had dropped without struggle. "It does make one wonder…"

"Of course I do," Beth snapped. "How many more times must we have this discussion, Pearl?"

"Until you relinquish a straight answer," she bounced happily.

"Precious… You know I think of your father as a… pirate…"

"_Yes?_" Precious prodded.

"Well that's it, really," she shrugged. "That's all he'll ever be to me; the pirate that gave me the most beloved—if irritating—gift I ever did receive."

"Your French hair-curling tongs," Pearl answered.

"Oh no, those were given to me by your uncle…"

"Which one?"

"People, please," I groaned, pulling the pillow tightly over my ears.

"What are we doing?" I heard Pearl ask, ignoring my presence completely. "Why are you combing my hair? Are we going somewhere?"

"I always comb your hair," Beth evaded unskilfully.

The girl let out an irritated sigh. "Bethany Pamela Sparrow—"

"Pearl!"

"—I demand a straight answer from you this instant, young madam."

The pillow disguised my snicker.

"Will you get that ridiculous notion out of your head!" She seemed a tad irritable this fine morn…

"I was asking you a completely legitimate question…" the young brunette sulked. A few minutes of companionable hair-combing passed. Just as I was about to drift off to the land of nod, however…

"You put _bows_ in my hair!" Wonderful timing… I groaned into the mattress. Even though it was my room, neither of the two females paid my vocal complaint any mind.

"Ribbons are fine: men where ribbons, I can handle ribbons… But bows? Oh Mother, why do you loathe me so?"

"Do you want them to be pink?" the blonde asked sweetly.

"…Threat comprehended." Another five minutes or so passed; another chance for me to slip into unconsciousness…

"Mama?"

"Yes?"

"What's happening today?" she demanded in her lovable way.

I heard Bethany sigh. "I'll like for you to meet… your future stepfather."

There was a clattering as Pearl understandably leapt to her feet. I immediately attempted to straighten and untangle myself from the covers—falling hard on the floor and yelping at the pain in my wrist in the process.

"_What!_" the girl shrieked.

"And sister," Beth added hurriedly.

I pulled the blanket from off of my head with my one uninjured hand fast enough to see the pretty girl staring incredulously at her mother. "You're—You're—You're—You're engaged?" she stammered, all evidence of maturity vanished.

I watched Beth kneel down beside her, her elegant hands resting on the child's shoulders. "Yes," she said simply. "You didn't seriously believe I was going to let you grow up _here_, did you?"

"You're _engaged?_" she repeated unbelievingly.

"You are?" I parroted, entering the discussion uninvited.

"That's why I—"

"To who?" Pearl asked mechanically. I noticed how Beth hesitated.

"Edward Wright," she said.

I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "That old pervert? The one who fathered the girl with the eardrum-splitting voice box?"

"Yes," she replied evenly. "The sugar merchant."

"_Why?_" Pearl demanded.

"He's returning to England; he's given the responsibilities of his plantation to his business partner whilst he oversees the trade and finances in London and Bristol, and he asked that I come with him as his wife."

"But you just—" I sputtered, unable to quite believe what I was hearing. "But you just said he was—"

"But why?" Pearl whimpered. "You don't seem to even like him that much… You're just being selfish about all of this, taking me to _England_, of all places, just so you can swan around in silks and satins and diamonds…"

I saw the look that passed over her face at this last comment; the look that told me quite frankly the _real_ reason as to why she was willing to marry a man she seemed less than fond of. But I must admit, I was more than a little surprised that Pearl, for all her reading and all her intelligence, had refused to grasp this barefaced concept.

I continued to watch, ever the silent spectator, as Pearl slowly reached under the neckline of her burgundy gown to pull out a small round bauble which shimmered reminiscently in the light. "Daddy can give you all that, you know," she whispered. "Maybe not legally, or properly tailored, but he still can…" She took a pause to sniffle, hurriedly wiping at her eyes with her hand, before continuing unsteadily. "He can give you what you want…"

"Is that what this is all about?" Beth asked. I suddenly wondered why neither of them protested to my presence. I mean, I'd only known them for four days, if that…

"I don't want to go to England," Pearl repeated unevenly. "I want to stay here, with Papa…"

As if realising my thoughts, Beth turned to face me. I watched as her blue eyes met mine unseeingly. "Go to my room, Pearl," she ordered quietly.

It was testament to her shock and uncertainty that the little kid obeyed unquestioningly, simply moving rigidly towards my door. I watched as her small white hand shakily reached to grasp the handle, and then, with a sudden spurt of speed, she burst forward. I listened in sympathy as her light footsteps disappeared; I heard a door slam in the distance; then the silence I had so desired only a moment before descended upon the building.

I turned to look at Beth, my empathy clear on my face.

What I didn't expect to see was her sudden kick at the chair her daughter had occupied only moments before. It balanced precariously on one leg for a single moment, before the laws of gravity finally forced it to inescapably topple over with a clatter. The blonde wrapped her arms tightly around herself, worrying her lower lip. "How can she be so damned _naïve_, after everything Jack had taught her?" she mumbled.

"She's just a kid," I pointed out.

Her eyes, identical to my own, snapped towards my crumpled form in shock. I hung back, certain she was to berate me for volunteering my undesired opinion. The pain in my wrist seemed to increase tenfold of its own accord, and I let out a hiss of pain.

"No, you're right," she concurred. "That's the problem. Jack knows she's gifted; he encourages it, and now she…" She hesitated, unable to find the right term. "He gives her so much false hope, you know," she continued. "If she was a boy, I wouldn't object as much as I do, but she isn't, and I don't want her to… I don't…" She drew a deep breath. "_You_ can see why I've accepted Wright's proposal, can't you?" she asked of me.

"I saw the way you looked at her when she said you were thinking only of yourself, yeah."

"Just _look_ at me."

I did, and I saw exactly what she meant immediately. Beth was stunningly, glamorously, angelically, unnaturally, _undeniably_ beautiful… Just like Christa. But unlike my sister, Beth wasn't born into a wealthy family. She didn't have any means of a decent income, and the more I saw of her love for her daughter, the more I believed that she'd taken up prostitution as a means of supporting her.

She was beautiful, she was kind, she was caring, she was perfect in every way… But she was just a whore. In the end, that was all anyone would ever see of her; it was all that mattered in this world.

And Pearl… What was to become of Pearl when she grew up? Will her extensive knowledge of Latin and piracy and God knows what other books she'd devoured help her achieve anything? This was a world where women were rated as second-class citizens, when they were not considered as property or livestock. In this world, only the well-born were respected outwardly, if not sincerely, and that was more than most could lay claim to.

The more I considered the facts, the stronger my support for Beth grew. "This is the right thing to do," I confirmed.

She smiled sadly at me. "I know," she replied simply. And then without warning: "Are you all right like that?"

"What, my hand?"

She was at my side in an instant, her slim fingers gently lifting the damaged joint. I winced, inhaling quickly, as she slowly turned my arm over. "Oh, it's not serious," she said, relieved. "But it will throb for a day or two… I suggest you don't receive any men for a few days. I'll speak to Nancy on your behalf…"

I stared at her. Just a moment ago she was ready to burst into tears, and now here she was, fussing about my smarting wrist, which even _she_ assured was fine, and offering to get me out of prostitution for a few days. Weird.

"Pearl will miss you, you know," she said wistfully.

"But I only met her—"

"And you're saying you _haven't_ grown fond of her in that time?" she asked of me slyly.

My embarrassed smile spoke volumes.

"You're very good with her… She's grown very attached to you, but that could be Jack's influence…"

I snapped my head up. "What?"

Beth merely shrugged. "Oh, you know men; they're very insecure. Apparently, your lack of swooning has made him very uneasy about his charm and effect on women… Thank you very much for that, by the way…"

"Men," I agreed in vexation.

"You won't… tell anyone about Pearl, will you?" she whispered abruptly.

I gawked at her. "Well, she's very loud…"

"But no one here knows of her existence. I was a streetwalker, you know, and I've only been here for two, three years." She shuddered. "If anyone knew she was here… Oh, I don't want to even _think_ about it…"

I nodded my promise, about to confirm verbally, when the sudden appearance of my bed mate from the night before cut our discussion brusquely short.

I saw Beth's golden curls spin as she turned towards the sudden creaking of the floorboards; I heard her gasp, and then; "Andrew…"

"Bethany," he smiled, bowing his head politely.

"How did you—"

"Sierra was so kind as to allow me to stay the night with her," he explained. "Why, are you perfectly all right, Bethany? You look very pale."

I watched the back of her head as she shook it in the negative. "I'm sorry; I was just very emotional, and the shock of seeing you here, of all men, it just…" she faltered. "I'll leave you both," she said, hurriedly standing. "I've other things to attend to."

His green eyes narrowed as he looked at the blonde in alarm. "Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, a more-than-friendly concern in his voice. "I've just come back with some breakfast; you're more than welcome to share…"

"Oh, I'm sorry, but I—" He raised his hand to silence her protests.

"No need to explain, Bethany," he said gently. "I'm used to coming second, and I understand that you've more responsibilities than most of the girls here."

I saw her hesitate. "Thank you, Andrew," she whispered softly. "You're very kind—"

"And understanding? So I've been told." He stepped aside to let her pass. I watched as she froze, hesitating, and turned to look at me. The look in her eyes was mixed but unmistakable; worry, fear, confusion and uncertainty were written clearly across her soft features.

And then the door slammed shut, leaving just the two of us alone.

He set the armful of fruit and various loaves on the small desk, bending to retrieve the chair. His eyes seemed to immediately spot my wrist. "What happened to you?" he asked sharply.

I shrugged. "Fell out of bed."

He sighed. "You beautiful fool," he reprimanded, closing the distance between us. Kneeling down, he slipped one arm around my back, the other under my legs, and lifted me easily back onto the mattress. I watched in uneasy confusion as he took my hand, pressing gently with his fingers.

"It's just a little twisted," he said, sounding oddly thankful. I raised my eyebrow in dubious suspicion. As if realising what he had done, he gently set the joint back down. He cleared his throat and turned suddenly away—but not before I could see the faint pink staining his cheekbones.

"I was wondering—" he began, then suddenly stopped. "Are you sure your wrist is fine?"

"I'll live," I reassured him. "What were you saying?"

He hesitated. "Can I spend the day with you?" he asked. "I mean, if I—if you'd rather I didn't, I'll just pay you and leave, but…" He raised his shoulders. "I'm stuck here for the next three weeks until I can repair my ship well enough to con some poor stupid bastard into buying it, and I'll pay you handsomely for your company…"

I raised my eyebrows. "Oh, so that's what you're calling it?"

"I mean it," he said. "You're very… spirited—not in that aspect alone," he added quickly as I opened my mouth to respond. "But overall."

I found his keen interest more than a little off-putting; slightly desperate, actually. But there was something about his… inexperience, of women and relationships, that I also found quite endearing. I mean, he was older than me by ten years, maybe less; a fully-grown man in his prime, and yet… And well, I could do with the company, come to think of it. And he was going to pay. And it was only going to be for one more day and night, anyway…

I smiled at him, trying to hide my amusement. "All right then," I said. "I accept your proposal, Mr…?"

"Wilson," he supplied, "but call me Andrew."

"Andrew," I said, nodding. "I knew that. No, really," I affirmed as he cast me a dubious look. "For now, anyway. If you can charm me in the next twelve hours, I'll consent to allowing you to share the pleasure of my company until you leave this little town."

x-x

He did charm me. By nightfall, I'd fallen for him as hard as he'd seemed to have fallen for me. Needless to say, we didn't see the need to leave my room that night.

I remembered falling asleep in his arms, feeling my most content since I'd arrived in this little place in history. I remembered thinking how surprisingly relaxed I'd felt, and how I could definitely get used to this sort of treatment. I remembered thinking how nothing could possibly happen to take this sweet calm bliss away from me…

The theory of which was effectively shattered when I'd groggily opened my door late in the night after ten minutes of pounding to see Pearl, Jack and Beth's little Pearl, in her stained ripped burgundy dressed, her face bruised and bleeding, tears sliding down her cheeks, and her usually immaculate hair tousled.

She fell into my arms the moment I'd opened the door, sobbing silently as I cradled her in alarm and cooed meaningless words of comfort in her ear.

"Sierra," she whispered quietly, fearfully, brokenly, "there was this man and woman…"

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x!x-

AN: I know, I know, I know, I hate myself too, but Pearl's injuries are quite significant to the plot. Feel free to flame and/or speculate on exactly what happened in my sick little mind… On a happy note, my beta-reader has just returned from Austria, and she's brought back a shovel and a headstone as my souvenirs… I think we can all clearly see what this means: she's taking me to the seaside!

And on an even happier note, I had posted an author's note in place of this chapter a few days ago proclaiming my companion fic to this story to all the world: **Gentlemen And Rakes**. So can you please go read it? It'll make me very happy… And I won't throw rotting vegetables at you!

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VagrantCandy: Oh, many a thousand, but I'm stopping short under a million… hopefully…

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jennifer123: Okay, rotten tomatoes it is… I feel very, very sorry for you; if you think Jack was evil to Pearl, wait 'til you read the next chapter…

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Jess: Reviewing is not spelt "revieming". Now, really, child… Find my shovel!


	15. A Man Amongst Swine

**AN:** If you haven't read the last chapter, which was, once upon a time, a placeholder for an author's note, I suggest you do so, otherwise this chapter will be completely confusing…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_Chapter Fourteen: A Man Amongst Swine_

"Beth!" I hissed, tapping on the door. Further down the hall, slouched in the doorway of my room, was sweet little Pearl, curled up upon the floor in a surprisingly foetal position, her shoulders racking with silent tears.

"She's not there," the child quietly rasped out. "I came to you 'cause I couldn't find Mama…"

I let my reluctant hand fall to my side and spun to face her, hurriedly closing the gap between us. "Oh, honey…" I whispered as I knelt beside her in only Andrew's shirt. My fingers slowly reached out to twist around a few of her soft strands, and she immediately jumped into my arms. Her hands fisted my loose hair as she buried her face into my shoulder, tears leaking through the flimsy material and onto my skin.

"I don't want to stay in this building tonight…" My arms gently encircled her waist as I held her in a comforting manner, murmuring agreements in an attempt to calm her.

Something terrible had happened to her; that much was obvious. But even _I_ knew that to ask her as to the sordid details would have been fruitless.

"I don't want to stay…" she repeated, over and over again, her protest growing more desperate with every statement. And then, she added, in the quietest, sweetest, most pitiable of voices, "I want my Papa…"

I felt my heart tighten at her absolutely despondent yet completely natural request: she wanted Jack. In her time of need, that was the man that she wished to turn to.

"But I want you here too… I want you with him, both of you…" she rambled.

A sudden thought flashed across my mind, and I looked down at her in shock. Surely she couldn't…? Surely she _didn't_…?

She was: she had somehow replaced Beth with me as her maternal figure.

The sudden realisation froze me to the core: How did she…? How did I begin…? And Beth; what about Beth? Doting, benign Beth, who was, even at this very moment in time, whilst I held her daughter in my arms, sacrificing any chance of happiness she may have had to give her daughter a 'better' life; how did Pearl see her now?

"Oh, Pearl…" I tightened my grip around her. And then, possessed by a sudden crazy impulse, I turned my face and placed a gentle kiss upon her raven head. Her sobbing calmed faintly, quietened considerably, and she relaxed into my arms. I smiled against her hair, encouraged at the response.

"Don't leave me alone tonight, Sierra; I don't want to ever be alone again…"

"I won't, sweetheart, I promise you I won't," I vowed, my hands stroking her silky head. "Oh, darling, we need to get you cleaned up… But not tonight," I added, sensing how draining her fear and trauma truly was. "We'll do it tomorrow, OK? First thing tomorrow morning…"

"Stay with me tomorrow?" she pleaded.

"Of course," I whispered. "Of course I will, you know I will…" My mind suddenly flashed to what seemed like centuries before, but what was, in fact, centuries later and had therefore failed to have taken place: my own father, and his heartless abandonment in my hour of need. I could still remember it all so clearly: the faint light of the streetlamps flickering through the window as I'd collapsed upon the soft clean carpet of the building, watching helplessly as my father turned away from me and out of my life…

The fear. The uncertainty. The absolute, complete, and utter despair. And all because my education had taken a turn for the worse…

Now I could see it; now I understood. My immediate affection for Pearl had sprung from an unconscious recognition of a lonely soul, a child with parents so near, and yet so completely out of reach it would have been easier, more preferable to accept that they had been dead since the day you were born.

Whenever I looked at Pearl, and the circumstances her life was in… I saw myself. And she had recognised the same qualities within me, as well. That's why she'd always returned to me; that's why she'd bonded so quickly with me.

I slowly stood, and she clung onto my bare legs. Smiling, I bent to pick her up. Her hands rested upon each of my shoulders as she leaned her head against me, her breathing slowing, steadying as she relaxed in my arms. I slowly made my way towards my bed, setting her gently down, and thanking my lucky stars that Andrew was much too gentlemanly to take up more than half the bed, before I hurriedly locked my door.

"Sierra?" I moved my way over to the pitiable voice, my hands raised in front of me as I 'felt' my way through the darkness.

"It's all right, sweetheart, I'm right here," I murmured, locating the bed. Sitting down, my arms hurriedly wrapped around the small child, leaning back into a more comfortable position in order to sleep.

"Pearl?"

"…Y—Yes…?" she asked, sounding more than faintly fearful.

"I promise you, honey, that whatever you want to do tomorrow…"

"Yes. I know." I felt her small, light body shift and move until her arms were around my waist like the night before when I'd held her. "Thank you."

"It's fine." And it was. I had no problems with her coming to me for the comfort and affection she so desperately craved from her own parents; I was more than ready to give it. And as to spoiling her tomorrow…? Well, I had no qualms about that either; after whatever the hell it was she'd been through, she deserved some form of happiness. I was willing to give her that too.

And, believe it or not, all of this spurned from my own experiences with my father: I was not going to leave Pearl, lying broken and helpless and alone in the dead of the night, no matter what the inconvenience it caused me. I wasn't going to turn into him. I was _not_ going to become him.

I wasn't going to leave this sweet Pearl, crying all alone upon the floor, like my father had. In my mind, Jack Sparrow wasn't much better than he.

x-x

The next morning was a calm one: I'd awoke to find Pearl lying upon my abdomen, her eyes wide and inquisitive as she looked upon me with her beautiful blue eyes in kitten-like curiosity. Andrew remained fast asleep, his hands curled upon his pillow as he laid on his front, and I felt a wave of affection rush over me just by _looking_ at him.

Of course, my attention returned immediately to Pearl, and I was able to order one of the few maids to send up a tub of water to Beth's uninhabited room. I sent her to her bath whilst I myself also prepared for the day ahead, combing my hair and securing it with a blue ribbon that I'd actually stolen from Andrew. I dressed in a plain, unadorned stay of leather over a thin white shirt and tan-coloured skirt, and I simply waited until Pearl had finished.

Gazing at my reflection in the mirror, I noticed suddenly that I wore only one earring. I spun towards Andrew, suspicion mounting… But how could he have removed it from out my ear without my noticing? Men were useless when it came to jewellery…

Pearl appeared at this exact moment, cutting off my train of thought concerning misplaced earrings and the like. She was dressed in a fine rich dress of deep moss green, embroidered with gold, and her shining hair, damp from her bath, clung to her face and neck.

"Do you like it?" she asked. "It was in Mama's room… I think it was an early birthday gift from that Wright man…"

"It suits you perfectly," I said honestly. "You look beautiful." At the mention of this, her eyes immediately sought out the floor beneath our feet, and her shoulders began to tremble from fear, as they did the night before. I frowned, noting this unusual reaction to a compliment: it was almost as though she wanted to be… _repulsive._

I shook the random thought away, smiling instead at her unexpected modesty. I stood from my desk and carefully made my way over to the still-sleeping Andrew. I looked down upon him with a smile upon my lips, my fingers reaching out to toy with his soft golden curls. I bent my head to kiss his cheek, and he stirred only ever the slightest. "I love you," I whispered to him, and I heard Pearl let out an obviously fake cough.

I turned to look at her in exasperation, noting for the first the extent of her maiming. From what I could tell from the night before, the majority of her injuries were actually upon her body, and she was dressed very conservatively this fine morn, thereby eliminating my chances of examining her thoroughly. Her right cheek was faintly bruised, as though she been dealt a cruel backhand. There was a faint cut just under her hairline, and her lips were still slightly swollen, almost as though…

I immediately shook the thought away. It was ridiculous; who, and why, exactly, would she be kissing so passionately? She was only a little girl… Besides, I don't think anyone's kisses were rough enough to leave another's lips swollen for more than a few minutes afterwards; it was more likely that she'd somehow gotten hold of a special kind of cosmetic, or had eaten Thai curry…

The neckline of the dress that she wore was surprisingly high, ending at the base of her throat, with her little pearl necklace on full display; the sleeves were slashed, hanging just above her elbows, showing the deep yellow that was the inner material of her garment. Beneath this first sleeve that looked suspiciously Renaissance in style came another, tighter fabric, plain and cool, tied to her wrist with gold bands. Her skirt opened in an inverted 'V' shape, showing the same material, whilst her outer skirt and bodice were made with the deep green cloth embroidered with golden flowers.

One thing was clear: she definitely couldn't pass for a common whore's daughter now.

As my mouth opened in pleasant shock, a part of my mind told me, very slyly, that if this didn't convince Pearl to travel to England with her new stepfather, nothing will. That same part also congratulated Beth on securing such a fortune, although it was very clear to me that the majority of it will be spent on the beautiful young girl before me.

"Don't stare," she ordered sharply, although there was the faintest tremor of terror in her voice. "I don't like it when people look at me like that. That's the exact look men get when they first set eyes on my ma."

I felt my eyes narrow in offence. "I'm not planning on ravaging you; not only do I not swing your way, but you're also well below the legal age limit…"

She shrugged, her face showing no reaction to my teasing, and I shivered. Whatever it was that had happened to her last night, she was greatly changed because of it. Before, she was lively and cheerful, pitting her wits against each and every person she came across. She was very mature, yes, and precocious to boot, but she was also just a kid, and she most certainly behaved in the manner. Now though, she seemed distant, distrustful, suspicious… She no longer possessed that innocence that only children could lay claim to: that was the only way I could describe it. No more innocence.

I noted suddenly that within her hand was a letter, sealed with what looked suspiciously like candle wax, and held most carefully between her fingers and thumb, but decided it would be wiser not to comment at all.

She reached out for my hand and I took it without hesitation. Whatever it was I was getting into… She was just a kid. This was Tortuga. Surely those two elements combined couldn't add up to anything serious…

…Right?

I cast one last farewell glance at Andrew.

Just in case.

"Come _on,_" she said imperiously, tugging at my hand. "I'll let you bed him later."

I followed the child out through a back entrance. My guess was this was where the few underpaid help came and went, but for now it was completely abandoned of all signs of life. The shabby door opened out into a shabbier alleyway, dark, narrow, and uninviting. My free hand went to cover my nose in disgust as the smell of rotting meat, ancient vegetables, used bathwater and human excrement all combined to make one sickeningly overpowering perfume and I choked.

"It's not that bad," Pearl reassured me as she hurriedly led me away to a distant opening. Judging how the noises of everyday life seemed to grow fainter and fainter, my guess was that she was leading me to another side street. I let out a silent prayer that it wasn't so much of a waste disposal site as the one behind the Pint and Garter was.

On and on we continued, and I was certain that we would have reached Pearl's destination a lot faster if we had taken one of the main streets instead of sneaking around deserted alleyways and dead pathways. Why was she taking the long way round? What was it in the public area that petrified her so greatly?

Once again, I held my tongue. Such questions were rarely answered when put forward, and I didn't see why I should be the sole exception to the rule.

At long, long last, the untiring child came to a stop. "We're here," she said simply.

I stared at the building in shock. "Out of all the places in all of Tortuga you could have chosen to spend your day at," I commented, "you chose a _barn?_"

Pearl merely shrugged. "I can't see Papa," she said, "so I thought that one of his close friends would be sufficient."

"Jack's undoubtedly long list of acquaintances include farmers, do they?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no," she corrected me, wagging her finger. "Sierra, you adorably naïve little girl…" My jaw tightened at being patronised by an eight-year-old. "The farmer, Mr Manson only _looks after_ Papa's friend."

"Your father's friend lives in a barn, does he?"

"Well, of course," she said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world, "where else would pigs sleep?"

A few moments passed before I was able to locate my voice box. "…A _pig?_"

"Oh yes."

"One of Jack's extremely personal contacts is a _pig?_"

"Sierra," the daughter of the infamous Jack Sparrow said with a tinge of impatience, "I think we've well established the undeniable truth that my Uncle Josh is a barnyard animal."

She was nuts. So was he. No, he influenced her to be this way; she inherited her madness from him. I'd always known it. I mean, all you really had to do was to look at the hair…

"Shall we?" she said, starting forward. She paused just before the open entrance, picking up a rake leaning against the wall, and turned back to look at me expectantly. Sighing, I followed, but I knew for a fact that I'll be booking an appointment with a professional psychiatrist in the afternoon.

The barn was dark and filthy, with only patches of bright daylight filtering through. I let out a shriek as a hen flew towards me, beating her wings furiously, and ducked closer to the unfazed Pearl. She stopped upon one part of particularly disgusting straw-covered floor, and with her rake, pointed to the several pigs piled upon each other in the corner. "There's Uncle Josh," she said, her voice tinged with excitement.

I followed her gaze, and my eyes widened incredulously.

Lying amongst the pigs was a man—a short, stout man with thinning hair and a greying beard that likened him to a badger much more than a pig. His clothing was worn and faded, and he was about as filthy as the creatures he slept amongst.

Also, a long wooden pole kept jabbing into his gut, but I don't think that was necessarily his fault…

"Pearl, stop that!" I hissed, making an attempt to disarm her of her rake.

"Why?" she asked innocently, dancing out of my reach.

"Young lady, if you don't give that farming instrument to me this very instant—"

My warning was cut short by a curse emitting from the mouth of the awakened uncle. "Damn ye to the depths of hell, Manson, I said five minutes more, you son of a—_Whore?_" His oath wavered as his eyes settled upon my form, and on seeing Pearl, he immediately scrambled to cover his tracks. "Deepest, most sincerest of my apologies, Miss, I'd mistaken ye for—"

"Don't you remember me just a little bit?" came the plaintive whining of a forgotten Pearl.

An easy smile lit up his kind face and he pulled himself up into a standing position. "What are you doin' here, lass?" he asked of her, ignoring me completely.

"I'm allowed to do whatever I want today!" she proclaimed, bouncing happily as her eight-year-old charm came flooding back in full force. "And I want you to tell me more of Daddy's stories!" I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, milady," the stranger said, bowing his head towards me respectfully. "Joshamee Gibbs, unofficial childminder of the notorious Jack Sparrow."

"Sierra de Victoire. Likewise," I introduced, and he laughed freely.

"Oh, I think you've more right than I to this fireball," he said, nodding to the beautifully-dressed doll-like creature beside me. "What are you wearing, lass? I almost didn't recognise ye…"

"It was a birthday present from my stepfather," she said sweetly, although it was clear to see how much those words pained her. She spun suddenly towards me. "Can you go and deal with him for me?" she requested. "Uncle Josh will take me back later…"

I hovered, uncertain how to answer. Should I let her stay with this unknown, albeit kindly stranger, and risk the wrath of Beth? Or should I take her with me, force her to return to the building in which she'd been so greatly abused only last night, and risk hurting her further?

The answer, as was with most situations such as this, came to me immediately.

"All right," I allowed against my better judgement, moving back towards the entrance. "But I can't promise to deal with Edward Wright though…"

"Try," she encouraged. "For me?" Oh, that last comment was _low:_ how could I say no to something like that?

"I will…" I muttered, glad to feel the sun shine upon my face once again. Before I set back to the brothel, I turned to take one last look at the unlikely pair. I saw her give him the letter she had held so carefully, saw him nod and promise her something about its delivery. I watched as Pearl leaned confidentially towards Gibbs, saw her take one single, deep breath, and I knew that she was going to tell him what she hadn't told me: exactly what it was that had taken place only the night before.

I felt a surprising stab of pain that she did not trust me enough to tell me herself course through me, and I immediately shook it off. Really, how long had she known me for? A few days, if that. She'd known this Joshamee Gibbs for the whole of her short little life; he wasn't just some random stranger she'd met in a barn one fine day. No, I should stop thinking such petty thoughts…

I should return immediately to the Pint and Garter, where my Andrew was no doubt waiting impatiently for my return, and indulge in some of his wonderful idol-worship of me…

With that comforting thought in mind, I immediately set off, trying to remember exactly where from whence I'd came as I made my way through the slimy streets of Tortuga.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** See? I was nice; no cliffhangers this time. Although what happened to Pearl still remains a mystery… Would it be cruel of me to tell you that you only ever really find out in **Gentlemen And Rakes**? Would it be shameless of me to tell you I've started another PotC fic entitled **The Scroll Of Kesmehet** (and yes, I had overlooked all the laws of nature when my idea for it had sprung forth)? Go read it; for the drag queen that hits on Jack, if nothing else… Actually, I think I will give you all **a slight clue as to what had happened to Pearl:** scroll down to read a verse of Theatre of Ice's song, _Miron._ (And no, I did not get my idea from this song; I'm sick and twisted enough to have thought of it myself.) After skimming the lyrics, flame me to inform me of how demented I am and how I should be locked behind bars for life.

**jennifer123:** NOOOO! You're meant to LIKE Andrew—I had this idea of him being all sweet and kind and gentlemanly! What makes you think it was his fault anyway? He was there with Sierra the whole day. On that note, what do you mean, Jack and Sierra are incredibly alike? I don't see it, but I want to know how I gave off that impression…

**Miron: by Theatre of Ice**

_Miron has a thing for little girls  
They really put his brain in a whirl  
He likes to watch them undress at night  
While he hides just out of sight  
And when they're home all alone  
He calls them up on the phone  
He tells them things they don't understand  
To them Miron is a real man  
He takes them all to his secret place  
Where he dresses them in pretty lace  
Then he likes to play his little games  
It always ends up the same…_


	16. Unexpected Reunion

**AN:** Sorry for the delay! But wait: Jack's back! Rejoice!

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_Chapter Fifteen: Unexpected Reunion_

I fanned myself in the blinding brightness of Tortuga's morning sun, longing to find shade as I continued to stand unsheltered on the docks. My hair had gone back to its natural straightness after three days of a conspicuously absent Beth and a suddenly extremely ecstatic little Pearl. Who was, at this very moment in time, unhelpfully critiquing the lack of pros and abundance of cons within the general structure of Andrew's ship, the _Red Star_. A more poetic and distinctly feminine name couldn't have been found if he'd tried. Unless you counted the _Black Pearl_. Now really, what was _that_ all about? It sounded like the name of a cheap South American jewellery chain…

"…rudder chain's all wrong, you'll have to remember to turn left when you want to go right, and I highly doubt any member of your crew possesses the mental capacity to consider such a simple alteration…"

"Oh, shut up," I yawned, hurriedly scooping her up in my arms. She let out a surprised shriek, her hands grabbing my arms wrapped around her small torso. I cast a glance at Andrew, who evidently didn't look too pleased at having a child not even in her double digits yet insulting his seamanship.

"Did you _have_ to bring her?" he grumbled.

"I don't know why I did," I spoke calmly over the half-struggling child's head. "Perhaps it'll be best if I simply left her behind next time…"

The fighting figure immediately went limp as a rag doll in my arms. "I'll be good, I promise…" she mumbled meekly, her voice switching suddenly from bright and playful to hushed and timid. "But don't leave me alone there…"

I cast a questioning glance at Andrew, who shook his head. Even now, I still wasn't certain as to what had passed that dreadful night two months ago. I couldn't think of any motives as to why anyone would want to hurt Pearl, and so could not think of any likely theories short of Pearl being abducted by seriously sadistic aliens.

Naturally, I kept _that_ particular brainwave to myself.

After setting Pearl back onto the ground once again, she immediately scampered off the better to view Andrew's burdensome vessel, leaving the two of us alone. My eyes followed her blue silk-clad form, worry and concern pushing all other thoughts away.

"Sierra, it's—"

"I know it isn't."

"You're—"

"I know I'm not."

"You shouldn't—"

"I know it's neither productive nor healthy."

"Then why—"

"Because I care about her."

He sighed, pulling me closer, and kissed the nape of my neck. "You should be more concerned about yourself, darling," he advised. "All this worry won't change a thing."

I shrugged. "You know, she's the only kid I've ever felt affection for? Is that weird? I mean, it's not normal, is it?"

"No, I wouldn't say it was _strange_," Andrew opinionated. "I mean, I'm certain she's very sweet when she's not—"

"Being chased up the rigging by a very irate-looking thug?" I deadpanned. His green eyes immediately switched back to his ship, widening as he took in the sight before him.

"That's only temporary!"

Oh God… "_What!_"

"It's not actually capable of carrying—"

His exclamation died out in his throat as the delicate web shuddered, suddenly snapping under the unexpected weight of a fully-grown man and an eight-year-old child. I'd instinctively started forward, but was rooted to the spot by Andrew's arms. I couldn't help the gasp of pain I felt at Andrew suddenly digging his fingers into the flesh of my shoulder and stomach, felt even through the cheap leather stay.

Surprisingly, he didn't release the pressure immediately; instead, his grip tightened, and I bit my bottom lip to stop from whimpering as he suddenly leaned closer to whisper almost… threateningly… But how could what he said be regarded as a threat? "She'll be fine," he'd said dismissively. "Just look at her father…"

I felt myself shudder at his tone as he uttered those simple last words, suddenly so bitter, so cold… so resentful… This was the first time Andrew had indicated that he actually _knew_ anything personal about Pearl's paternity… And I found that I wasn't particularly fond of his opinion on it…

"Sierra?"

I shook my head, smiling faintly. "I'm sorry, I was just… Well, Pearl…" I tried, attempting to hide the real reason as to my sudden uncontrollable shaking. The actual reason was quite unsettling in its irrationality; for a moment there, I thought that Andrew… Well, perhaps 'kill' is too strong a word…

As if reading my thoughts, his fingers suddenly uncurled, and before I knew it he was shoving me a few feet away from him, stumbling in my long skirt. I turned back to look at him, fear and uncertainty written all over my face, only to see his own expression a strange mixture of confusion, shock and remorse. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly. "I didn't mean…"

I shook my head wordlessly, inching closer to him. He held his hand out for me, and I took it unhesitatingly, letting him pull me into an unexpected embrace. My eyes immediately switched back to the _Star_, and I felt myself exhale in relief when I saw a familiar raven-haired girl hurrying towards us both.

"That rope was weaker than a spider's web," she snapped, clearly unnerved. "What were you thinking, you fool!"

"Pearl," I said hurriedly, pulling myself from Andrew's hold and wrapping my own arms around the child. She immediately buried her head into my shoulder in an affectionate manner that no human being on earth could help but simply adore, revelling in my unconditional and surprising but no doubt welcomed attention.

Behind me, I heard Andrew clear his throat. "I… I won't be able to spend tonight with you," he began. I turned my head to face him, my eyes meeting his challengingly.

"Oh?" I asked detachedly. "Why ever not?"

He simply shrugged, his hand loosely indicating the ship with the spider-web rigging. "Potential buyer," he mumbled, dropping his gaze in shame. Pearl let out a snort muffled by my shoulder, clearly sceptical as to that being the real reason he was leaving me on such short notice.

"All right," I replied, surprised at the faint pang I felt at spending the night without his company. "Good luck."

"I don't have to go _now_," he corrected quickly, but I simply shook my head.

"I think you probably should," I murmured, flipping my hair to cover the developing bruises left by his hand.

He'd caught my meaning immediately. "Sierra, you know I don't—"

My cause was backed up from an unexpected quarter. "You _should_ go!" Pearl squealed, looking over at Andrew. "Then I can have Sierra all to myself!" I smiled at her contagious enthusiasm, studying her features closely for any indication that her quick little mind was able to discern the sudden tension between the two usually affectionate adults. Thankfully, there was none.

A few more frosty moments followed in which Andrew attempted to stall for time, but to no avail. At long last, he surrendered, and I acknowledged his sacrifice by allowing him to give me a kiss of temporary farewell. His hands snaked around my waist, holding me gently to him whilst he whispered in my ear, "You know I would never hurt you, don't you? Or do you think I'm the twisted, sadistic bastard that ravished your Pearl?"

I shook my head imperceptibly, snuggling deeper into his arms. "I love you, you know." I smiled softly, closing my eyes at his words. "And I really am remorseful for…" He trailed off, allowing his fingers to trace the faint swelling above my collarbone. "It'll be gone in an hour or two." I nodded at his words. He smiled down at me. "I'll make this up to you, all right? Tomorrow, though; the child obviously still needs you."

And with one chaste kiss he'd turned away, travelling in the general direction towards central Tortuga whilst Pearl clung to my skirts, chatting about some misadventure her infamous pirate daddy had undergone, but I paid her no notice. My mind was still with Andrew, and his momentary abandonment; I was thinking about how foolish I was, agonising over an accidental bruising; about how understanding and considerate _he_ was, thinking almost solely of my personal preferences and happiness instead of his own; how unquestioning and undoubting he was in my fidelity; how he trusted me not to go running off into another man's arms for the night…

Well, _that_ was a considerably unnecessary mistake…

x-x

Jack Sparrow had entered my room in the evening—about nine or so, I think, when it was sufficiently dark enough to be classed as night—the door swinging open unexpectedly. I'd whirled around, letting out a gasp of surprise, and his eyes immediately turned to land on my stunned features. Astonishment graced his own pleasing countenance, before a grin evidently designed to charm took over.

"…Papa?"

I couldn't help the spasm of disappointment that rippled through me as Jack immediately turned to the bed, where an adorable little beauty was huddled, a book lying open alongside her. In three seconds or so, he had sat beside her, closely examining her features. She simply stared back, her blue eyes wide with wonder, and I could sense the wordless conversation that passed between them.

At long last, it was Jack that broke the silence. "Pearl, darling…" She continued to gaze up at him, still unable to fully comprehend his presence. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small narrow package wrapped in a faded cloth, and laid it down between them. "Happy birthday."

She flung herself at him, thin arms wrapped tightly about his neck, and he immediately returned the hug, rubbing her back as her shoulders began to tremble and she finally allowed herself to cry. "It's all right, poppet, I'm here now… Hush, lass, I won't let anything happen to you…"

I swallowed, feeling rather awkward as this poignant moment unfolded before my very eyes, and desperately prayed that somehow, someone, some_thing_, would appear to pull me away and leave them alone together.

"Don't go away again," Pearl pleaded through her heart-wrenching sobs. "Daddy, please don't leave me here…"

"I'm not going to."

"…Promise…"

I saw him hesitate; saw how his eyes flickered from his shaking daughter to the wall behind her; then I saw his eyes meet mine questioningly but guardedly. As soon as his brown gaze locked with my own orbs of blue, his hold immediately tightened.

"I promise," he murmured soothingly. "I promise I won't leave you here alone again, all right?"

A silence followed, punctuated by Pearl's continuous sobs. Unable to take it, I stood from my chair, mumbling something about how I'll either be outside or downstairs, and slammed the door shut on the pair.

Inhaling deeply, I leaned against the wall, nodding politely in acknowledgement as two stunning brunettes passed by, each hanging off of the arm of a short and heavily scarred drunkard, all three laughing at the top of their lungs. I heard the screams of the whores and raucous laughter of the patrons from below. With all of this clatter and racket, how could such a quiet and personal moment occur just the other side of the door?

After fifteen minutes or so, my door softly creaked open, and Jack stepped out, making certain to close the door firmly shut. His face was enticingly half-shrouded in shadow, leaving only his lips and chin illuminated in the flickering candlelight. I nervously swallowed once again, memories of our one night together immediately resurfacing as his eyes inspected me from head to toe.

"I'm guessing Beth never thanked you," he said finally, "for watching over Pearl. It was—"

"Completely involuntary," I completed for him, and he smiled fleetingly.

A smirk soon followed as he stepped closer to me, and I tried to step back—but alas, the wall prevented such actions. I took a deep, supposedly calming breath as I felt his hard, muscular form press against me, trapping me in my not-so-uncomfortable position, his hand against the wall. _Andrew, Andrew, Andrew,_ my mind screamed hysterically at me, but that certainly wasn't the message my body was receiving.

I felt my breathing quicken as my pulse hammered in anticipation. "Is this… your idea of thanks?"

He leaned closer to me, his breath warming my lower lip. "Well, this would certainly be how I'd like _you_ to express your gratitude," he teased before his lips claimed my own.

I couldn't help pulling him closer, or returning the gesture with equal fervour as my hand drifted to tangle in his thick locks. Practically all of my relationships had been based on physical attraction or sexual chemistry; just because I was falling in love with Andrew didn't automatically mean that my attraction to other men would swiftly cease, or that I would immediately pull away if a particularly desirable individual was to make an advance. No, that wasn't how I worked at all; to ask me to submit myself to the laws of monogamy would be asking too much. No; like most women, I had _needs_; unlike most women, I was simply a little more upfront and honest about it.

And besides, who said Andrew would have to know, anyway?

I was only using Jack, really; just for one night. Exactly as he was using me; under this extremely flimsy guise of gratitude for the caring of his daughter, his main objective was to get me into his bed a second time. No threat to Andrew at all, even if I did go more than willingly; he could confidently state in any court of law that my heart was legitimately his without any dispute whatsoever.

And yes, so I was as equally attracted to Jack as I was to Andrew… But that was simply animal attraction. Carnal lust. Physical allure.

I gasped as Jack nipped lightly at my bottom lip before he pulled away, panting for breath. His gaze flickered to my door, as though to reassure himself that its single juvenile occupant was safely fast asleep, before he grasped my hand tightly in his own, leading towards the room which I knew was Beth's.

Perhaps I should have felt a slight guilt at so blatantly betraying Andrew; the way I saw it, promiscuity was fine when one was involved in a loving relationship, provided that both parties agreed to it. Otherwise, it was simply underhand deception, plain and simple. And… And Andrew didn't know. And I wasn't going to let him know either. I was… cheating on him.

But, I'm sorry to say, for the rest of that magical night, Andrew didn't even cross my mind.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** …Well, at least she's honest with herself, if not others…

**VagrantCandy:** Ah, if I tell you who it was, it wouldn't be such a twist now, would it? But I've already hinted at it very, very, very subtly through Beth… Without actually giving much away… What are your guesses, anyway?

**jennifer123:** A very good question: what twisted pervert would DO such a thing? A mystery that should be unravelled… Well, I only ever plan on saying it in the other fic. Can't really work it in here… Or can I? Hmm… Still hating Andrew, huh? Well then, I hope this chapter was more to your taste, as was the Gentlemen and Rakes chapter. You know, the one where I put Andrew in drag?

**Mizamour:** Woot! New reviewer! AND this is on your alert! I'll like to point out that you really don't have an excuse to not review, he he… Thanks for the compliment; I'm glad you like the main character. So, what's your opinion so far? Feel free to make your answer as long as you wish…


	17. A Simple Favour

****

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

__

Chapter Sixteen: A Simple Favour

I remembered something from the night before that quite offended me; Jack Sparrow being a little too eager to leave the room for his own good. He'd held me in his arms for a few moments as we'd both gasped for breath, attempting to slow our rapid heartbeats. And then he'd rolled over and was out of bed, on his feet, and dressing hurriedly. Frowning, I wrapped the bedcover tightly around my torso, sitting up and pushing my sweaty hair out of my face.

"What're you doing?" I asked, feeling more than a little insulted. Most men at least had the decency to wait until I was asleep before they attempted to sneak out and dodge the little matter of my fee and/or any emotional attachment they'd arrogantly assumed I'd developed for them. Asinine fools.

He paused, his shirt in one hand whilst the other buttoned up his breeches, and looked at me, from my bare legs to my covered body to my dishevelled hair and back, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Get dressed," he said shortly to me, clearly after reaching a decision of some significance.

I raised an eyebrow, taken aback at this unexpected new development, and crossed my arms. The sheet slipped a little lower as a result of my action, and judging by the swift but thorough sweeping glance that followed this little application of the law of gravity, I wasn't the only one who noticed it. "Why?" I asked.

"Because, my dear darling strumpet, I've a mind to walk out that door and return with a bouncing bundle of joy whining about her lack of sleep before she curls up in my arms and drifts off whilst you and I watch over her like a pair of bloody guardian angels, savvy?"

"…Oh."

He nodded in satisfaction, visibly pleased that I was able to grasp this simple concept, and gracefully exited. I'd hurriedly groped for my discarded chemise, twisting the garment this way and that and effectively ended up tangled in the thing like a fly in a bloody spider's web.

It was only after I'd finally managed to slip the faded cloth over my head and fastened all but three of the top buttons that the handle silently turned, and sure enough, Pearl was nestled in Jack's arms, grouching about how the building was too loud and how she didn't want to be moved to another room. I stepped towards the door, turning the lock and tugging the handle to assure myself that the mechanism was firmly in place.

I watched as Jack gently set his daughter down onto the mattress, where she immediately curled up into a foetal position that looked worryingly defensive, turning her head so as to bury her face into the greatly-used bed. I couldn't help but notice how Jack's eyes narrowed in concern as he drew the same conclusions as I; reaching down, he gently tucked a strand of ebony behind her ear, and kissed her cheek. She shifted, her bare arms reaching up to wrap possessively around his neck, and I knew that the affectionate smile that graced his features at this simple gesture did not do the emotions that he felt beneath the surface justice. Lying down, he purposefully returned the embrace, smiling again as she shifted closer.

"You're more than welcome to stand there all night if you so desire, my lady fair, but might I recommend the comfort of a mattress? Blow out the candle whilst you're at it, sweetheart."

I obeyed his request, and the room was immediately plunged into utter darkness. The small window was shuttered tightly, and all I heard was the sounds of merrymaking and festivities filtering through the walls and floor of Beth's chamber. Gracelessly stumbling, I tripped over a mislaid boot, and was soon face to face with the floorboards. I heard a faint snicker, and immediately gave the pirate a crude gesture, pointless as the lack of illumination meant that I did not in any way offend him.

Pushing myself onto my knees, I opted to crawl to my destination instead, and let out a curse as I rammed headfirst into the wooden corner of the bed. Letting my hands feel the rough, splintering wood, I pulled myself to my feet, and crawled onto the bed.

"Ow! Watch the knee!" Oh, that's what it was. I withdrew ever so slightly, letting my curious fingers explore the partly-covered limb. My hands drifted lower, feeling his muscled calf flex under my touch as I groped desperately for a place not occupied by the apparently doting father. I heard the bed sheets ruffled as he shifted, and then I felt his hand rest on one of mine, guiding me to a deserted area of the bedstead.

His hand never released my own as I clambered over his form, taking extra care not to place any weight on his dozing daughter. As soon as I was settled, he tugged my hijacked appendage, drawing me closer as I turned my body to face his. I felt my palm slide across Pearl's back as I drew nearer and onto Jack's bare chest, and I swallowed. His own fingers slid lazily down my arm, rubbing my shoulder, and I shuddered. I felt his palm gently but firmly slide down my back and onto my hip before slowly making its way up my waist, thoughtfully exploring my body.

In response, my arm curled around Pearl, and I drew closer still until I could feel her back resting against me, moving gently as she breathed evenly. Jack followed suit—slightly: instead of wrapping his arm around his daughter's body, he wrapped his arm around mine, preventing me from executing any plan of escape I may have had.

"I really meant it when I said thanks," he whispered to me.

I smiled to myself. "Don't—"

"I'm not planning to," he answered. "But I just—Pearl, and—" He stopped. "Thank you, anyway," he managed to convey.

"It's fine," I assured quietly. "Now, hush, she's asleep."

x-x

When I'd returned to the realm of consciousness next morning, I was immediately aware of a slim little body pressed firmly against my own, with arms wrapped around me. Smiling, I opened my eyes, and immediately registered two brown orbs glaring at me. The childish glower was soon replaced by a look of charming amiability as the fascinating felon I, strangely enough, _still_ harboured an attraction for acknowledged my stirring.

"A beautiful morning for a beautiful woman, wouldn't you say?"

I yawned, preparing to return to the realm of the dead, but an insistent prodding prevented me from completing such a feat.

"_What?_" I snapped, keeping my voice low so as not to wake the child.

I saw Jack grinning rakishly at me, and my stomach immediately plummeted several feet; Jack was the kind of man that gave off the impression that as soon as he receives an idea, the safest course of action was to get the hell out of harm's way.

"I was wondering if you—"

"No."

"But you don't—"

"No."

"Won't you—"

"Nope."

"But—"

"The answer," I stated slowly and clearly for verification purposes, "is _no_."

I watched as Jack rolled his eyes, before a wicked smirk that didn't bode well for my well-being came across his features. Propping himself up on an elbow, he leaned down towards me, making certain not to disturb Pearl, and—and he just… kissed me…

I felt my eyes widening in surprise at the gentle, fleeting contact—but that was before his hand had located the back of my skull and he was prying my unresisting lips open with only his tongue.

When he'd eventually pulled away, I found myself dazed and amiable and certainly very much awake now. "Okay," I gasped dreamily, if such a thing was possible. "What was this favour of yours?

He gave me a triumphant grin that I didn't actually resent. "You love Pearl, don't you?"

I hesitated, uncertain as to what the answer was. "I'm… I… don't… actually know…"

"That's a yes, then," he interpreted, that grin always dancing around his lips.

"What are you implying?" I enquired suspiciously. "Jack, what is this favour you're requiring?"

He simply shrugged, his fingers reaching out to tangle in his sleeping daughter's hair, and I immediately understood his implication. "Pearl?"

"Yes," he confirmed. "I was planning on bribing you into looking after her until I return—"

"Which will be—when?"

"Oh, a month or so," he replied dismissively. "I should be in a sufficient position to take her off of your hands by then, and you'll ne'er here from me again."

I looked down at Pearl's sweet serene face, my fingers lightly tracing her thick lashes. "Yeah, okay."

He flashed me a grateful smile, slipping out of the bed and indicating I followed suit. I released Pearl, whose eyebrows knitted together before she rolled completely onto her front. Whilst he pulled on his boots and shirt, I slipped an overdress of pale cream onto my shoulders, leaving the front unlaced and my legs therefore bare. I slipped into shoes of worn leather, and looked at him questioningly as he slipped a weapons belt around his body. "Why do you want me to come with?"

Having buckled the belt securely, he stepped towards me, swinging his arm about my shoulders and pulling my body tightly against his. "Well, if you're planning on minding my child for the next month or so, I can't help but feel obliged to provide the financial means with which to care for her. And you," he added as an afterthought.

"Shouldn't Beth—"

"I know it's her responsibility, and I know I should consult her… _professional_ opinion, but you know what?" I shook my head. He immediately continued with his dialogue. "I think," he said, hesitating, "that Beth's so worried about Pearl's future, she's currently neglecting her present duties." I instinctively turned back to face the sleeping child, catching his meaning immediately.

"So what are you saying? That you think I'll be a more responsible mother than Beth currently is?"

"I never said that! …I merely unconsciously implied it."

"You don't even know me."

"No, I really don't," he agreed as he steered me towards the closed door, reaching down to turn the key. "But I can clearly see that you're attached to her, and she to you, so I think that she'll probably enjoy your company more that she does her mother's, harsh though that may be…

"And I feel like having company at breakfast this fine morn," he finished as he swung the door shut behind us.

"Well, that justifies it completely then," I quipped sardonically, letting my own arm wrap around his lower back.

On reaching the remains of the tavern, where a grumpy old barkeep who I recognised but knew not the name of was busy wiping down the wooden counter and muttering under his breath, Jack released me from his grip and spent the better part of five minutes persuading the man to relocate himself to a kitchen/pantry somewhere.

"So I'm actually going to get paid for once, huh?" I asked conversationally as soon as he'd convinced the scowling grouch to feed us both.

He gave me a dubious look, raising an eyebrow. "Don't you get paid anyway? Oh… They wouldn't, would they?"

I shook my head, murmuring something about how a roof over my head and clothing was enough.

"And you're all right with that, are you? You've no qualms about being trapped with only their doubtful mercy sustaining you?"

"I don't have anything else; I don't have anyone…" Except for Andrew, but I wasn't planning on relying on him too heavily. "You know, this is the only thing I can actually _do?_"

He tilted his head, examining me closely for a few mere moments. "Well, if it's any consolation, you're very skilled at what you do…"

I smiled slightly, looking from the floor into his laughing eyes. "I suppose that's a compliment?" I asked innocently of him.

"Jack!" I turned, surprised to recognise the voice. Before me stood the man that had rolled amongst the pigs and…

"Oh my God…" The sound of clinking informed me of Jack's head suddenly snapping to the side to stare at me in disbelief as I unthinkingly uttered those three small words.

"…You can't actually be _serious_…" I shook my head, not actually paying him any attention.

Standing beside Gibbs was a man—no, a boy, only younger than me by four years or so—but oh, how unbelievably gorgeous he was. I mean, he was very pretty… His black hair was shorter than Jack's, combed and pulled neatly back by a ribbon; his clothes, though simple and coarse, were clean and respectable; his eyes a pure coal black darker than Jack's, and his skin, though tanned, was unquestionably lighter in tone…

…I'm not certain as to why, exactly, but I did find myself wondering how he'll look in a blond wig. Must be Andrew's influence…

The boy I was staring so intently at coloured, deliberately diverting his gaze from me, and I frowned before realising that the simple reason he avoided looking directly at me was because of the simple fact that I was, according to this time period's rigid fashion rules and dogmas, currently "naked". Oops.

As if to confirm my sudden brainwave, Gibbs also looked away, coughing uncomfortably. I turned to see Jack… with narrowed eyes and a distinctly childish pouting expression that looked disturbingly like Pearl's… The kind of look that indicated the owner felt something akin to mild displeasure, and desperately yearned for something else other than what he saw.

"Ah, Miss Sierra…" Gibbs said, clearing his throat. "Might I introduce you to William Turner of Port Royal?"

I held my hand out to shake, and he'd automatically brought my fingers to his lips, eliciting from me a wide smile. Jack cleared his throat, his hand slipping from my shoulder to grip my hip, pulling me even closer, and I reluctantly dropped my hand from William's, who in turn looked more than a little relieved. He hovered behind Gibbs, who'd seemed to have recovered from his initial shock and was chatting amiably to Jack about some sailors of questionable intelligence and/or sanity he'd found in the past twelve hours or so.

The two continued discussing the various aspects of the maintenance of a pirate ship as the four of us dined on a feast of bread and local fruits, and I soon gathered that a woman named Elizabeth had been abducted from her home a few days prior. I said nothing, resting my head on Jack's shoulder, and let their completely irrelevant conversation flow over me, whilst the dashing William Turner merely sat in obvious discomfort, still keeping his eyes focused on anything but my barely-dressed form.

"Sierra!" I turned in time to see a bundle of white cloth and black hair hurl herself into my arms.

"Ow!" I wheezed, grabbing at the living cannonball, whilst Jack merely sniggered. "Morning, honey."

Pearl lifted herself up high enough to whisper in my ear, "Don't tell that man that I'm Papa's little girl; he doesn't like that," before she toppled over and stood beside me, looking up at the four of us. She crawled swiftly back onto my lap, swiping a bunch of grapes from the table, and nestled against me, waving at a stupefied William Turner. "Hello!" she smiled brightly. Stunned at the appearance of the child, the young man hesitantly returned the gesture. Satisfied at establishing her appearance, she leaned back into me.

"Well, Jack," Gibbs interjected, standing brusquely and brushing breadcrumbs off of his faded coat, "now would be a good time to introduce you to the crew, eh?"

"Yes," Will put in hastily, clearly wishing to be as far from my half-clothed form as possible (still not looking).

Jack looked at me, reluctantly pulling away. I felt him press a purse into my hand, along with an unsealed envelope. "Look after that letter, all right?" he whispered, using an embrace of farewell as a cover for handing over the money.

"Why?" I whispered back. "What is it?"

"Oh, just a legally-binding promise to pay should you require any extra funding," he dismissed, stepping quickly back from me should I continue to interrogate him further. Ruffling his daughter's hair rather affectionately, he was gone, his two companions following.

Pearl wrapped herself around my bare leg affectionately, looking up at me. "Will you be looking after me from now on?" she asked curiously. I nodded, and she squealed in delight, pouncing upon me. Jack was right; you _did_ get strangled…

Smiling into her hair, I made my way up the stairs, setting her gently onto my bed with the heavy purse beside her, and turned to the envelope in my hand. It was unsealed, so I was able to pry into the hidden contents. I flicked open the "promise to pay", skimming the contents, and stopped at the name and signature at the bottom.

"Pearl," I asked, "who's Lord J. Raven?"

****

-x!x-

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AN: The whole "getting revenge on Pearl's behalf" plot IS already underway, I'll have you know… Sierra just doesn't know it yet… And you'll find out who Lord Raven is later, if you don't know already…

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blushingbeauty86: Ah! You're totally sucking up to me (not that I mind). Don't feel intimidated; you'll have a vocabulary to envy as well if you read through the dictionary… I'm not so worried about reviews as I used to be; I just found out I have 169 hits for this story, so now I'm merely angry at the people who read and DON'T review… And I'm actually trying to get to the point of the plot where Jack is just there PERMANENTLY, but it's just taking a while to get to the fun part. I might put in the next chapter who perverted Pearl; depends how evil I'm feeling…   
Y'know, you of all people shouldn't be ashamed about other people reading your story; personally, I love it, slow though I may be at reading multiple chapters at once… Don't worry about the whole Violet thing; the only reason I noticed was because I was reading the whole thing all at once; I'm sure other people didn't actually remember. So, exactly when are we going to find out who that bloke from the pub is, hmm? A rough estimate will suffice…

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VagrantCandy: NO ONE likes Andrew… maybe it's 'cause I'm deliberately stereotyping him…? Sierra doesn't actually find out who violated Pearl until AFTER Jack gets his revenge, so wait until Jack does something really violent for no apparent reason, and then you'll be able to guess easily…

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-anapants-: Thanks! Glad you like. Ignore Sierra's "justifications"; it's all a bunch of crap she doesn't even believe, so… Yeah… Say more next time; I love long reviews…

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jennifer123: OK, calm down, I get you don't like Andrew! Sheesh… As for Andrew's ass-kicking, that will have to wait a while… And revenge for Pearl? A few more chapters and then… well, let's just say that Jack and a heart set on vengeance isn't the BEST of combinations… I'm working on Gentlemen And Rakes! Give it time…


	18. A Slight Misunderstanding

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Seventeen: A Slight Misunderstanding

Pearl just stared at me, her blue eyes wide in confusion. She tilted her head to the side, her pale brow furrowed, clearly deep in thought; her lips involuntarily pouted as she considered the question. After two minutes of contemplation, she announced, as though the very words physically pained her: "I don't know." She sounded about ready to hang herself at the confession, and turned away, clearly disgruntled at her lacking knowledge of our anonymous financier. "Wait!" She swivelled back to face me, her face alight with a sudden idea. "I think I know!"

My eyes had widened at her sudden change in her disposition. "Oh, really?"

She nodded enthusiastically, leaning towards me confidentially. "Daddy does fraud," she sang happily.

…I _had_ felt a sense of foreboding the moment Jack first announced he had an idea…

"Oh, don't worry, it's okay; it doesn't actually mean anything… Besides, from what I heard of Lord Raven from Mama was that he was reckless and… and drunk… and he smoked opium… and he might be dead." She shrugged away the problem. "He probably hadn't even noticed his accounts being emptied; probably put it down to debt and whatnot…" Right; that made it all okay then, didn't it?

My door suddenly burst open—it appeared that the only time I ever locked it was when Jack was here—and I turned, surprised—my visitor was the last person I'd ever expected to see.

Chinese silks of flowered indigo and amethysts looked sinfully beautiful against Beth's ivory skin and pale hair. But then again, most things did. Her big blue eyes, however, were narrowed in pure anger—I felt the mattress shift as Pearl scuttled closer to me in mindless fear.

She needn't have worried so greatly.

"_Where is he?_" What the hell had Jack done _this_ time?

"I think he's already left," I told her, whilst Pearl instinctively lowered her eyes, resting her head against my shoulder. A wave of guilt flooded through me as I saw the fire die in Beth's eyes; she looked from her daughter to her fellow whore, clearly surprised; more than a hint of heartache flew across her features.

She hid it very well. "Do you know what your daft father's gone and done _now_, Pearl?" she interrogated. "Has he told you _why_ he's playing this senseless game of his? Because as God as my witness, I am getting _sick_ of these toying of my emotions that clearly entertain him so greatly."

I couldn't help but feel slightly hurt, but at long last, the reason as to why he encouraged his daughter to associate with what he regarded as a common whore was clear: he was currently courting Beth, and so couldn't afford any distractions. Particularly distractions that took on the form of adorable blue-eyed dolls which would simply remind the lucky blonde what happened the last time she fell for his charms.

Well, at least he's _paying_ me. I wasn't really in a position to ask for more than that.

"Do you know what he did?" she demanded of us both, kicking the door shut in frustration. I had a feeling I was about to find out… "He's somehow convinced the dock masters to—to—oh, I'm much too infuriated to even _talk_ about it!" And she threw herself onto the forlorn chair, breathing heavily. "We can't leave Tortuga," she spoke bitterly.

I jumped as Pearl leapt up in joy, letting out an involuntary yelp of surprise as I fell back whilst she remained contented to bounce upon the mattress. "So we have to stay here!" she exclaimed excitedly.

An exasperated smile pulled at Beth's features; she held out a gracefully sculpted hand, beckoning her daughter to come closer. "Where have you been for the last two months, poppet?" she asked affectionately. "I've been missing you, sweetheart."

The effect these words had on the little girl was nothing short of magic: Pearl had landed on the floor, stumbling slightly in a manner that worryingly reminded me of Jack's inebriation, and crawled into her mother's lap, resting her head against her shoulder. Beth simply smiled, stroking her daughter's silky hair affectionately. "Anything happened, precious?"

"What do you mean?" Pearl chirped, but I could detect a sudden worried undertone. My eyebrows knitted together; surely Beth _knew_…?

"Oh, you know, the usual; did your daddy find a new book for your birthday? Did you knock your father out with it? What you usually do." Judging by Pearl's pouting expression, rendering her father unconscious with a book was not a regular hobby of hers.

"Mama, don't you see he wants you back?" she asked. Once again, I felt as though I seriously should have left the room.

"Pearl, we've been through this; you know I don't care about your father like that…"

"But you're _married_ to him!"

"_Pearl!_" Yeah, I think it'll be best if I went on my merry way…

x-x

Andrew did something that was bloodcurdlingly terrifying after I had left the mother and daughter: he _proposed_ to me. And he didn't even have the courtesy to get down on one knee. This was what happened:

As soon as I'd left my room, leaving a very aggravated Beth and a very obstinate Pearl in my wake, I'd taken only two steps before Andrew literally appeared out of thin air. "Good morning!" he'd exclaimed, suddenly lifting me up and kissing me passionately.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" I yelped.

"I've sold my ship for ten times what it would have been worth had it actually been in a decent shape!"

"Congratulations," I said, wondering how I could have gone from chauffeured limousines and caviar (a disgusting piece of Russian cuisine) to associating with conmen and fraudsters. Had I been kidnapped by the Mafia again? All right, so that _had_ been a really random dream courtesy of _The Godfather_, but it could happen; I _was_ part-Italian…

"I wanted to tell you last night," Andrew continued, oblivious to my thoughts of Italian family honour, "but you were… preoccupied…"

I felt my heart constrict in fear and I swallowed, smiling weakly at him. "I'm sorry, I was completely sober…" …That had not been what I'd planned to say.

"I know. I saw you together. Betrayal aside, will you marry me?" But last night, Jack had come straight to my room, so…

My eyes widened in horror. The pervert. I'd instinctively slapped him across the cheek, his blond head snapping to the side. "How dare you!"

Andrew winced at my high tone. "Is that a 'maybe'?" he tried. "Or at least a 'I'll consider it'?"

"Put me down!" I had absolutely nothing against voyeurism; I just liked to know when I was being watched and when I wasn't. It was a basic human right, was it not?

"But all I did was ask you to marry me," he whined, tightening his grip around my waist when I began to struggle. "Is that really too much to ask?"

"Of course it is!" I snapped. "When did you propose to me anyway?"

"Just now! You slapped me!"

I tilted my head, looking pensively down at him. "Really? I didn't notice."

His jaw dropped. "You _didn't?_ Then why did you _slap_ me?"

"Because you were being all sick and twisted and perverted," I pointed out.

"When?"

"Just now. I slapped you for it."

"Really? I didn't notice."

My eyes narrowed at his mocking tone. "Not notice what, the slap or the perversion?"

"The perversion, of course," he answered, looking up at me in concern. "Has Sparrow given you opium?"

I was taken aback at the completely random query. "Not that I'm aware of," I replied. "He takes opium?"

Andrew shrugged; I felt myself elevated ever so slightly. "He used to," he informed me. "That's how he lost his ship in the first place, you know. Crew didn't like the idea of a captain that was always only half-aware."

I closed my eyes, resting my forehead against his, and kissed the tip of his nose affectionately, seeing how I couldn't reach his lips. Would it make me a bad person if I said I wasn't thinking about Andrew at all? I was thinking about Jack, and the little I'd learned of him. Catherine Wright (my hand immediately went to touch my ear as I plunged up those dreadful memories of her impersonations of a dying cat) had said he was a rapist with a chocolate fetish—I found that extremely attractive, please don't ask me why—Pearl said he was God and supreme emperor of the world, Beth said he was always drunk (I had to agree with her here), Madam Cleave said that he was… a _pirate_, and now, here was Andrew, telling me he was hooked on opium.

Jack Sparrow sounded like so much fun. I'm glad I slept with him.

"Wow," I whispered, "this is too much information." I looked down at Andrew's adoring eyes and smiled in spite of myself. "So let me guess this straight: Jack Sparrow is a rapist—"

"I wouldn't say he was a rapist," Andrew cut short. My eyes widened and I looked down at him, surprised at how defensive he sounded. Judging from the look on his face, he clearly hadn't expected to back up the man who had bedded the woman he was planning to marry either. "He's actually quite respectful of women. Excluding the ones he lied to in order to bed with them."

Yes, there were always those, weren't there?

I sighed, and Andrew finally lowered me to the ground. "I told you I'll make it up to you, didn't I?" he asked, his fingers reaching up to trail along my collarbone.

"Andrew, there aren't even any marks—"

"But there were! There could have been," he reminded. I felt my heart literally melt; he reminded me of a little boy. A sweet little boy who did something very wrong and was now very upset because of it. That was his charm: he was so sincere, so… innocent. Yeah, innocent. If it had been any other man, I'd have laughed.

I took his hand, smiling suggestively. "But your room's over there," he pointed out.

"My room is currently unavailable; let's go into Beth's. She doesn't care, she's practically married to a merchant now and is all set to sail to England with Pearl…"

"Edward Wright?" he asked.

"Yeah; how'd you know it was him? How do you know _him?_"

I saw him hesitate. "Let's just say it's a matter of unsettled gambling debts…"

Fraudsters, conmen, and luckless gamblers as well, apparently. I sighed in irritation. "Andrew, if you want to sleep with me at all, you'll stop talking _now._"

"Exactly what have I _done_ to you, Sierra? You seem to be taking everything a little too personally…"

"Well, you just told me you're a voyeur," I explained. "That tends to put a girl off."

"But when did I—"

"Last night! You said you watched me and Jack!"

"What? I didn't!" he defended, looking positively sickened. "Sierra, I think I'll kill myself if I saw another man touch you."

"But you said that you—"

"I didn't say—let me put it this way," he sighed, cupping my face in his hands. "Sierra, I'll only want to watch you and Jack Sparrow fornicating if Sparrow turned out to be a very attractive young woman—which, now I think about it, is very much a possibility…" He grinned wickedly down at me, and I smiled in return.

"Men," I sighed, dragging him down the hall and entering Beth's bedchamber.

"You asked for it," he reminded, immediately pushing me onto the bed. I chuckled in agreement, pulling him down towards me—

Not for the first time today, the door unexpectedly swung open. I felt Andrew freeze above me, looking up at the intruder meekly.

"My God, Sierra, do you _ever_ use your own room?" Beth huffed, hands on her corseted hips. I watched as Andrew's eyes widened as he stared at the blonde in astonishment, taking in the tailor-made gown, the artfully piled hair, the gemstones glittering at her ears and throat.

"But you and Pearl were—"

"You know," she lectured, ignoring my protest, "it's bad enough you're bedding my husband, but now you're working on Andrew as well?"

I stared at her in confusion. "Uh, honey," I started hesitantly, "you just spent the better part of fifteen minutes reminding your daughter that you are currently _un_married."

An awkward pause, during which Andrew was suddenly very interested in examining his nails.

"Oh, what would you know?" she sulked, gently closing the door behind her as she left us to our own devices.

Andrew and I stared at each other. "I never thought I'll hear myself say this, but suddenly I'm not in the mood," I confessed, looking guiltily up at the blond.

"Neither am I," he concurred, rolling off of me.

I glanced at him, scanning his face. "What are you to Beth, exactly?" I asked.

His eyes darted towards me. "What do you mean?" he asked, completely thrown off by the question.

"Well, it's obvious you know each other pretty well," I said. I saw him wince; clearly he had been clinging to the hope that I wouldn't have picked up that little detail. "I just wanna know—how?"

He inhaled deeply, bracing himself. "All right," he relented, looking at me closely. "Jack Sparrow and I were in competition for Beth's affections." He paused, correcting himself. "Actually, Sparrow only wanted her… favours. But that's besides the point. You can guess who the victor was."

So that's why Andrew was so… protective? Clingy? Needy? All words that described him perfectly.

"And it would appear that history is about to repeat itself," he said, his hand catching my own and squeezing the fingers ever so slightly.

"Andrew, you're so paranoid," I chastised, bringing his fingers to my lips. "Jack only has eyes for Beth, apparently." He snorted, raising himself up on an arm the better to look at me in disbelief. "Seriously," I continued. "The only reason he lets me baby-sit Pearl is so he can woo Beth without any unpleasant reminders of what happened the _last_ time she gave in to him."

"But they're already sleeping together, didn't you know that? God, I saw them kissing only last night."

__

Last night!

I sat up, looking down at the man who I supposed was my fiancé in disbelief. "They slept together last night?"

"No they didn't," he answered a little too quickly. "They just kissed—in greeting. A hello kiss, as it were."

"Was it a chaste kiss on the cheek, or a 'I've missed you so much, I must have you right now' kiss?"

"…It's hard to tell the difference between those two," he evaded. He really had to learn how to lie.

"That fucking bastard," I hissed.

"Well… he does have a right, if you think about it. Not about having the both of you!" he added at my pointed look. "But… Beth _is_ the mother of his child…"

"But he should really just stick with _one_ woman per night. Unless it's an orgy or something. Then it's okay."

"…Of course," Andrew said in a tone that suggested he couldn't have agreed less. "Let's move on to a more pleasant topic of conversation, shall we?"

"Yeah, sure. I can do that. I don't actually care about Jack and Beth. Really," I added at Andrew's raised eyebrow. "He can fuck her as much as he likes. I don't actually mind."

"You know they say that a red sky at night is a sailor's delight?" he offered.

I stared at him in incredulity. "It's shepherd," I corrected, "and you don't have to try to distract me. I really couldn't care less about Beth."

"Well, it is _someone's_ delight," Andrew continued, oblivious to my order.

"Andrew, I swear I'm not jealous," I insisted, my eyes widened in innocence.

"_I_ never said you were."

"But you know what I _do_ feel? Offended. I feel _so_ insulted." I tilted my head, pouting as I turned my body to face him. "Andrew, am I bad in bed?"

"No!" he answered quickly. "God no, you're amazing. Very enthusiastic as well; that's always a plus. It's a good thing when someone's passionate as well as talented."

"Be honest…" I pouted.

"Can you please let this drop?" he begged.

"Fine," I grumbled, falling back onto the mattress.

Several minutes of companionable silence passed.

"Beth's better than me in bed, isn't she?"

"How the hell would I know? She _rejected_ me, if you recall."

"Well am I boring, then? Am I boring in bed?"

Andrew let out a sigh of frustration. "This is going to be a very long morning…"

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-x!x-

**AN:** Yeah, I know… No action whatsoever. It's a filler though, so I'm entitled… Quick note: all the earlier chapters were set before the movie, this and the last chapter were set during, and the next time Jack comes in it'll be post-movie, just to clear that up…

**VagrantCandy:** He does't actually have a HIDDEN agenda. Just a regular one. Not a very subtle man, Andrew…

**-anapants-:** Nope, Pearl wasn't abused by Andrew… But I guess I did give off that impression, huh? Thanks for reading the other fic! I'm glad you like my other fic: happier you like Flavio! I'm so glad I created him… Exactly what is it about Flavio that you like, out of curiosity?

**cbs3:** Whoa! Thanks for all the positive reviews! They really made my day… You don't have to read the other fic if you don't want to. But hey, if you'll like another perspective on what happens in THIS story, I'll just post a note when it FINALLY catches up with this one; that way you don't get all the flashbacks. But only if you're interested…

**love2rite:** Jack IS awesome; feel free to be bias. And feel free to review again ;) So I guess you like Pearl, huh?

**TigerTiger02:** Jack being in every chapter should kick in either next update or the one after; Andrew doesn't get his comeuppance for ages yet, so feel free to dream on… Speaking of which, it was really evil of me to give him porphyria, wasn't it? Great plot twist though, you must admit…

**blushingbeauty86:** Praise, hmm? Sounds a lot better than you simply sucking up to me, I'll admit that much… I'm sorry I made you feel sorry for everyone; it's going to guess worse… But I won't be saying anymore about that… Moving on; you're still not too fond of Will, right? Cos I have this urge to seriously humiliate him in this story—I don't know why, it's not essential to the plot but still… I'm not really sure how; all that I know is that I want to do it: any suggestions?

**jennifer123:** I'm guessing you're still reading this, so I'll take a shot. Jack's little revenge-on-behalf-of-Pearl plot will kick in when Jack gets the Black Pearl back, which should be next chapter, or the one after… Anyway, sometime soon. Never seen a leech before huh? Oh, they're disgusting; my friend got one on her leg one summer… It wasn't very pleasant… It's funny you'll call them vampire slugs though; you know porphyria is called the "vampire disease"? Well, it's one of them, anyway…


	19. The Power Of The Pout

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Eighteen: The Power Of The Pout

Andrew had left. At long last, after three months, he had left Tortuga with promises to be back within three weeks. And no one was more ecstatic than little Pearl was. She dangled off of my arm, nattering about how happy she was to finally have me with no daddy or any other wanton men ushering her out of the room whenever the mood hit. That's very close to an exact quote.

So, it was just the little girl with the kitten-like eyes falling under my questionable influence for three days as she bounced energetically around me in beautiful silken dresses her despised step-daddy-to-be had ordered for her, her hair slowly curling into perfect ringlets as each day passed whilst her mother continued to bustle around the cold man that cared more for her than he did for his own daughter.

Yes, I did still continue to visit Miss Catherine as her questionable "companion"; especially when Wright discovered I was caring for his future stepdaughter. That was it: my fate was sealed. The man even talked about bringing me back with them to England as a kind of domestic servant, although I had a nagging feeling this was more to gain brownie points with Pearl than it was an actual plan of action.

I had really grown quite attached to the little brat. I mean, I still stuck by my no-kids-whatsoever-of-my-own mantra, but… Oh, she was absolutely adorable. There was no question about that: she was one of those children you couldn't help but fuss over and naturally wanted to spoil, and I had a vague feeling that such power would continue well into her adult life. And I think… I _think…_ the feeling was mutual. We were quite alike in circumstances, Pearl and I; neither of us saw much of our parents, yet we both harboured a perfunctory fondness for them; we both sought out solace in people which perhaps we should have stayed away from, and we both craved affection and attention. There were more similarities than these—especially one specific element in both of our lives which _really_ struck a chord in me, but… I won't bore you with the details. Everything important had already been said.

Our peaceful little routine was irrevocably disrupted at Jack Sparrow's unexpected return.

Neither of us had actually noticed his sudden appearance; not even when my door creaked open and slipped closed again. I was too busy relaying and censoring a rather… explicit… ghost-cum-vampire love story I had stolen from Anne Rice about a Roman woman who was turned by the love of her life into a vampire and how she repeatedly kissed two statues' asses for hundreds of years since. With more elaborate wording, of course.

"…And it was with these last words of farewell that Lydia was forced by the Hebrews to abandon her beloved father to his death…" I paused, taking a breath whilst I ran my dry tongue over my lips, and Pearl looked up at me expectantly, utterly enraptured.

"That does sound like a paternal course of action, considering the circumstances," a voice said from the door. My head snapped to see Jack's inattentive yet amused gaze as he leaned against the door, watching us both in contentment. "It does seem a tad too histrionic for my taste though—whate'er happened to _talking_ your way out of tight situations?"

We exchanged glances, Pearl and I. "Men," she uttered with a sigh of exasperation, and I chuckled as Jack's eyes widened.

"She's great; oh, I just love her…" I chanted.

She beamed brightly up at me, and snuggled into my arms, her gaze falling on the confused father standing in front of us both. "Hello, Daddy," she greeted happily. "I missed you."

All he did was stare at her, clearly dumbfounded. My eyes met his gaze, and I tilted my head back ever so slightly, staring at him defiantly as my arms tightened around his daughter. "What's the matter?" I asked, although I think I already knew: Jack Sparrow, the pirate I'd heard so much of, the man I had… "intimate" moments with, the supposed legend I knew so very little of… Jack Sparrow resented Pearl's sudden affection for me.

"Nothing's the matter as such," he'd answered readily, the faintest traces of a slur in his voice as he stepped closer to the bed and sat on the mattress, abruptly pulling me closer to get at his daughter. She let out a squeal, leaping immediately out of my arms and onto Jack, who's eyes had widened in response as he was suddenly choked to death. "Alright, sweetheart, easy on the windpipe…"

"Papa!" Why did he always wince when she did that? Surely it wasn't because of me, was it? "Daddy," she continued in a confidential manner, leaning closer, if that was possible, and ignoring me completely, "Daddy, I'm _scared_…"

"What are you talking about? The only thing I'm worried about is the alarming number of times Sahara said 'and they hugged 'til they could hug no more'…" His questioning expression slowly faded as his gaze met my own—I'd narrowed my eyes since he'd let the word "Sahara" slip out, and I could guarantee my gaze was not about to melt anytime soon.

Luckily for him, Pearl chose that very moment to pipe up with a surprisingly innocent question: "And what's wrong with three men hugging, Papa? It isn't as though she's describing various carnal acts between any number of men that the Church might find a tad offensive…"

The look on Jack's face was priceless. "Really, what the hell happened to you to make you so fuc—so, ah… worldly?"

"Well, my mother was a whore; my father? A pirate constantly on the prowl. And I was raised in a brothel," she threw in for good measure, blinking up at him. "Daddy, did I leave out anything?"

A pause. "Yes, that would explain quite a lot…"

With a wide, innocent grin, she nestled her head further into her father's shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her back, and, quite suddenly, stood, with a (faintly scared) grin in my general direction as he strode towards the door. "Well, sweetheart, I can't thank you enough for all of this—"

"Yeah, yeah," I dismissed, turning away from the two.

"Bye, bye, Damiane," Pearl called sweetly.

"What?" her father asked questioningly.

"Don't you make it a habit of asking new acquaintances their middle name?"

"…Not particularly…"

"Well, perhaps it's time you should, Papa," the distressingly precocious child scolded as the door swung shut behind the little family of two…

…Only to suddenly swing wide open sixty-five minutes later. I toppled off of the mattress in shock. I was beginning to do that quite a lot, actually…

"Forgotten something, honey?" I questioned in surprise as a panting Pearl stood in the doorway, her silken hair in a state of disarray.

"I don't want to go," she answered, moving towards me in a flurry of blue silk and wrapping herself around me.

I stroked her hair worriedly, confusion evident in my expression. "Go?" I echoed.

"With Papa," she answered shyly.

I creased my brow further. "Why not?"

"Because then I won't be with you," she replied, burying her face into my shoulder. "I'll miss you…"

"But… But… what about Beth?"

She raised her head to look at me in astonishment. "Oh," she said, "her."

I raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"I don't really see her," she replied in answer to my frown. "Papa always sees me when he comes to this port… And… And… And Mama lives with me, but I don't… I don't…" She sniffled suddenly, tightening her grip on my hair.

"Pearl, I can't—"

"Yes, you can!" she yelped suddenly, drawing back to look up at me. I was shocked to see tears in her blue eyes. "What's keeping you here, anyway! The food? It can't be the pay…"

I very nearly mentioned Andrew's name. Nearly. The "A" froze on my tongue, and I was left with a gaping mouth for several seconds. Then, an ingenious, practical, wonderfully simple idea formed in my head. "And I suppose your father's fine with a good-for-nothing whore on his ship?"

"Oh, utterly."

Well, so much for _that_ brainwave… I narrowed my gaze at her. She stared defiantly back, daring me to challenge her authority. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

She pouted.

"Oh, fine… Help me pack, won't you?"

Her response was to squeal and strangle me for several minutes.

* * *

I looked at the wooden structure bobbing in the water in disdain. "This is it?" I asked the little girl standing beside me.

"Yep."

"It's so… so…"

"So… what?"

"…Small…" I wrinkled my nose in disgust. "And it looks absolutely filthy. I'm not touching that ship."

"_Sierra_…"

"I'm not!"

"But you said you'll come with me," she reminded, wrapping her little fingers around my palm.

"Yes, but that's when I thought the ship had _some_ semblance of hygiene."

"It's only black wood, not… Not… Not dirt," the child insisted.

"You sound very certain of that fact," I said sarcastically.

"I am," she replied assertively.

"No, you're not. You're just a child."

"I know more about ships than you do!" That was very probable, but I was not about to give this brat the satisfaction of knowing she was right. So I crossed my arms and scowled. She tugged on my hand several times, and I turned to look down at her… And she was pouting. Pouting!

I screwed my eyes shut in frustration. "Fine…"

* * *

I was awoken by the ground suddenly lurching. My eyes snapped open in shock. Was there an earthquake? I know you can get earthquakes and volcanic eruptions in the Caribbean…

Another jolt. My fingers scrambled for the corner of the bedpost. Jesus Christ, I think I was going to throw up…

Another jerk of the suddenly unstable ground, and I was flung out of the bed, my fingers slipping from the wooden corner.

"Oh my God…" I groaned, cursing the child on the bed (who was sleeping quite peacefully and completely undisturbed, I'll have you know). Struggling to maintain my nonexistent balance, I was able to clamber onto the moving mattress, and curled under the thin blanket. In my half-conscious state, I could hear the creak of the door; the sound of furious footsteps; at the corner of my vision I saw the glow of a lantern, and then I felt a dripping arm press against my back as its owner reached across me.

"No… I want to catch the bouquet…"

My eyes snapped open; it was a bit early for the little girl to dream of weddings, wasn't it?

I turned to look at the invader—and froze.

In the light of the lantern, I saw Jack. At least, I thought it was Jack—his face was utterly cold and emotionless, and his eyes were hard and cold—like a statue's. But no, his face wasn't the most disturbing aspect of his appearance. It was his clothes.

They were covered in crimson blood. That was the liquid that I'd felt on my shoulder blades.

He smiled friendlily down at me. "Just a very quick word with my daughter, and she'll be all yours." And with a sudden jerk he'd lifted her up by the back of her nightdress, emitting an undignified yelp and _lots_ of kicking, whisking her out of the bare little room and to God only knows where.

As soon as his footsteps and Pearl's various protests of innocence for a crime she most certainly _had_ committed had faded, I'd tumbled out of the bed, a hand pressed hard to my mouth to stop myself from prematurely retching. The shuddering of the _Black Pearl_ most certainly did not help as I crawled towards a wooden bucket in the _far_ corner of the room and emptied the contents of my stomach. Gripping the sides, I breathed heavily for several moments, attempting to slow my pounding heart and erratic breathing.

__

What was going on?

Shakily, I forced myself to stand, stumbling gracelessly back to the bed. I uttered several colourful curses which made me grateful that Pearl wasn't in the room as I collapsed on the cheap, hard mattress.

Several minutes later, Pearl came bounding in, closing the door quietly shut. She crawled into the bed beside me, attempting to steal the cover from my grip.

"What was that all about?" I mumbled at her.

"Nothing, nothing, nothing," she assured me, succeeding in her task with one final tug and prying the cotton material out of my grasp.

"Oh, really?"

"Really. You needn't worry at all; just a very small, tiny, minor, insignificant detail about living arrangements."

"Which is…?"

"Papa may—or may not—have known of your presence on his ship," she replied sweetly. "Night, night, Sierra."

And she dived under the covers. I, on the other hand, sat up, eyes widened in incredulity.

"_What!_"

****

-x!x-

AN: Jack shouldn't be disappearing anymore, for anyone who's interested… I don't think they'll be seeing eye to eye on spring cleaning… Oh, and Sierra's seasick. She'll be throwing up very regularly from now on. Comments on her middle name, anyone? Oh, and would anyone wish to hazard a guess at the number of chapters this story will end up being? This IS still the beginning; I have a habit of expatiating…


	20. Jack’s Stolen Book

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Nineteen: Jack's Stolen Book

"That's not very polite!" Pearl protested when I'd finally pulled the cover away from her tired little body. She yawned, rubbing her eye sleepily, and looked questioningly up at me. "What do you want?" she whined.

"What do you mean, Jack didn't know I was on this ship?" I railed.

She shook her head. "I don't know; I'm only eight…"

"Don't try that excuse with me, young lady!" I tugged on her white sleeve, forcing her to glare up at me in a this-is-highly-unjustified-and-cruel way. "You told me that Jack was okay with my caring for you!"

"And he is," she affirmed. "Now give me blanket." I dangled the material high out of her reach, watching her half-sleepily attempting to snatch it from my taunting grasp. "You're being _mean,_ Sierra!"

"Explain," I commanded, stretching my arm up further.

"I can explain in the morning," she tried, attempting to climb on me the better to steal back her coverlet. "Sierra, _please,_" she tried, pouting ever so adorably.

I shook my head. "Not gonna work on me this time, Pearl."

She widened her eyes, pouting all the more. "_Please?_ I'll be very very good, and I won't set _anything_ on fire…"

Instinctively, my hand began to lower, before one of the little voices in my head reminded me that there were greater things in the world than the happiness of a little girl. "Nope," I replied, now kneeling on the mattress. "And don't try to manipulate me again, alright? It won't work—I'm not your mother."

The pout immediately vanished to be replaced by a childish scowl, and she sat back, arms crossed over her chest as she glared up at me. "Fine," she gritted, "I'll tell you what happened:

"Papa pulled me out of the bed, as you may or may not be aware of, and took me up into his cabin, set me down on a chair, and glared down at me, very angry and threateningly. I said, no, I sighed: "Papa, what did you do _now?_" because he was covered in blood, and he isn't usually, and he said something about making sure that the man that had hurt me would never be able to do it again, but wouldn't go into detail, even though I asked him to—"

"He knew who did… _that_ to you?" I asked, completely caught unaware.

"Well, of course he did; Papa is too lazy to go around attacking innocent people; anyway—"

"But—But—But—But how did he _know?_"

She gave me a disbelieving glance. "I told him, obviously."

"…You did?" I asked, hurt that she hadn't confided in me as well.

As though sensing my thoughts, she snuggled up to me, resting her tired head in my lap and yawning. "It… It was the people at the brothel—There was a woman, they called her Mrs Spencer, and…" Here Pearl paused, inhaling deeply.

My mind was working frantically. Spencer; Spencer, Spencer, Spencer… Where had I heard that name before…?

Suddenly, everything clicked together. "Mrs Spencer?" I asked wildly. "The—The brothel keeper?"

I felt Pearl nodding against me.

"And—the man… he worked there, didn't he? At the Garter…"

"Yes," she whispered.

"But—But why would she… It was all her, wasn't it? She arranged it to happen…" I felt her nodding her head in affirmation, her shoulders shuddering ever so slightly. "But why…?"

Pearl abruptly pulled away from me, rubbing her eyes fiercely, and looked up at me. "Sierra, am I pretty?" she asked suddenly.

I looked down at her silken black hair framing her long-lashed blue eyes and creamy skin and doll-like features. "Yes," I answered honestly.

She swallowed in response. "Mrs… Mrs Spencer… She's well-known for having… everything in her brothel…" At my confused look, Pearl reluctantly elaborated. "She has women, obviously, of all ages and colour… And, and then there's the men… And there's the—the…"

"The children," I realised. At her barely-perceptible nod, I felt the bile once again rising in my throat.

"You don't ever see them, because they're all locked up in the attic, and no one ever goes up there… But I—But I knew the building, I always wondered around it in the day, so I was able to—I could get back…"

"And they hurt you," I filled in, feeling a numbing horror gripping my organs. "They hurt you because you fought back, didn't they?"

"They wouldn't have been so violent if I'd stayed still, but I didn't know what was happening… And then when I did know, I just—I struggled more, and that just—it—it made it worse…"

She squeezed her eyelids shut, and was very still, breathing slowly through her nose. When she'd open them again, her eyes were filled with tears, although she bravely held them back.

"After that, I didn't—I couldn't be alone, not there, and I—I couldn't tell Mama, because—because—" She breathed in slowly, her young face a very mask of pain. "I heard them talking," she murmured. "The man—he was called Davidson, Jacob Davidson—he was asking Spencer where I came from, and she said that I was the daughter of—her exact words were, "That five-year-old blonde angel that I bought from the streetwalker some odd twenty years ago, do you remember? One of the first children I'd ever procured?" And he said that—he said that he did…" And suddenly, Pearl burst into tears, leaning into me. My arms automatically wrapped around her shoulders, cradling her trembling body tenderly, whilst my mind remained blank with shock.

So that was it. That was Beth's secret, then; she'd been abused as a child, and she'd never learnt to take care of herself since. I supposed all the signs were all there: how earnestly, almost madly, she'd kept Pearl locked up in her room; how she'd begged for me not to reveal her daughter's presence to anyone else in the establishment; even the rash engagement to Mr Wright…

I kissed her head gently, rubbing her back in a comforting manner, and closed my eyes. I'd never felt more revolted in my life. My skin crawled at the mere memory of having stepped foot inside that building, much less work there for several weeks…

Eventually, Pearl pulled away, wiping her face with her sleeve and looking up at me, as though awaiting my verdict. I placed my palm on her cheek. "I promise you I won't ever leave you alone again," I swore to her. "To be that vulnerable…" I shook my head.

I felt Pearl's smile against my palm. "Come now, Sierra," she said with a forced playfulness, "that's not true; what about you and Papa? You'll like to be alone then, wouldn't you?"

Pearl was the only eight-year-old I'd ever encountered who knew all the motions and roles of adult relationships inside and out. The fact that she applied such innuendos to her father would forever disturb me.

"Which reminds me!" she spoke suddenly, clapping her hands together. I took it that meant, 'Let us never discuss this conversation again'…

"Now that we've established that I was in his cabin and the reason's he's covered in blood is because he's murdered at least three people…" She paused, clearing her throat. I stared at her, utterly flabbergasted. I knew that this cheerful façade was all just an act now, considering the previous topic of discussion, but it just seemed all so… natural…

"And then he said, "Pearl, there's a whore installed in your bedroom," and I looked up to him and said, "Papa, don't preach," and blinked a few times, like this." And she widened her eyes in a kittenish manner and fluttered her lashes very innocently. It would've worked on me well enough…

"And then his eyes narrowed and he started pouting—"

"Your father pouts?" I asked, surprised at this new information.

"Well actually, he was frowning, but it looked like he was pouting, it's his lips, you know, they naturally look all pouty—"

"Stop changing the subject."

"Alright—then he asked me what I was doing and why did I bring you on this ship and I said I was looking out for myself because I knew that he wouldn't want to look after me all the time, and he said that wasn't true, so I went like this," and she raised a dark eyebrow in a questioning, disbelieving manner, "and he said that he was a very busy man and that it wasn't his fault, and I said, "Exactly, which is why I brought Sierra with me, and she's very nice, and I'm sure you'll like her a lot when you get to know her better," and then he—" And here she stopped, hesitating.

"And what did your father do?" I gently prodded, lowering my aching arm and kissing her cheek affectionately.

"He… he laughed a little bit and said that you were a whore, what more did he need to know?" she whispered very quietly. I felt an arctic chill settle around me for a second time that night as her words sunk in.

"Sierra, are you alright?"

I shook my head, smiling down at her. "And then what happened?" I asked Pearl lightly, trying to keep my voice cheerful rather than hurt. After all, I wasn't the one that was raped before my eighth birthday…

"He said that he'll see what you're like and decide for himself whether you'll be a good—a good—" and she lowered her eyes and murmured something that I couldn't hear.

"A good what, honey?" I asked, bending my head down with my ear towards her and ignoring the sudden lurch of the ship; surely there wasn't anything left in my digestive system to orally dispose of, was there?

"A good mother," she whispered shyly, determinedly avoiding my gaze.

My mouth, quite understandably, dropped open. "A—A—A good… what? A—a mother?"

"But of course, you don't have to," she added hurriedly. "Papa's always going back to Tortuga, he can take you there and you can wait for your An—for that thing that proposed to you."

I let a small chuckle escape from me. "Aw, you're so cute," I murmured, wrapping my arms around her. "You can have your blanket back now; I'm done with my interrogation."

"Oh, thank God for that," she uttered in prayer, snatching the cover away and flinging it upon herself. Her head suddenly popped out, and she offered a corner to me, which I accepted. I then simply laid there, my mind replaying everything that she'd just said. (It was, most selfishly, I think, everything Jack was saying about me.)

__

Pearl, you've installed a whore in your bedroom. I could hear Jack's voice as clearly as though he were speaking directly to me; the anger, the frustration, the disbelief, and maybe the faintest undertone of a threat. A whore. Was that all he saw me as? I mean, I knew he was never going to see me as a lover or a most trusted confidante of any kind, but—but surely he must have thought I was a half-decent human being as well as a wanton trollop, to have entrusted his daughter's well-being into my hands?

__

She's a whore; what more do I need to know? Was that all I was now? Was that all a man would see when he looked at me? Just a whore? It wasn't as if I'd chosen this particular garden path; I'd just been handed it, without any choice in the matter. Did I know I was going to a brothel when Madam Cleave offered me a helping hand? No, I did not.

"Sierra?" Pearl's small little voice whispered cautiously as my eyes began to slip closed.

"Hmm?" I indicated my attention.

"If it makes it any better, Papa said something about you being very pretty."

My eyes slipped open a fraction, intrigued by this news. "Did he?"

"Yes, he said he'd never seen a prettier thing drooling all over her pillow than you."

Great…

* * *

I was awoken the next morning by a sudden jolt, accompanied by the sound of a very heavy object slamming into the mattress, a sudden silence, then a faint buzzing, and Pearl's shriek of frustration as she leapt off of the bed in heavy pursuit of the annoying humming sound.

It wasn't the most pleasant alarm clock.

I let out a groan, grabbing a stray pillow and covering my head in response. There was another _thwack,_ followed by a buzzing louder than before. The momentum of the ship caused me to roll from one side of the bed to another, and I felt a wave of revulsion wash over me as the disgusting sensation of rising bile filled my throat. I groaned, a hand at my mouth, and tumbled out of bed yet again in my haste to find the sick bucket. I noticed dimly a small white figure skidding around me as Pearl hurriedly changed her course, realising I was now conscious.

After purging my stomach of any excess victuals it may have secretly harboured from last night's vomiting, I turned to look at the ever energetic Pearl bouncing crazily around the room, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and pushing my hair back from my sweating face.

__

Thump.

Pearl let out a shriek of fury as the buzzing continued to mock her, chasing after the fly with a large black book I strongly suspected was a Bible. All I could do was stare in astonishment at her relentless pursuit, wondering how long I'd been sleeping.

"Um… Pearl, hon?"

"Just a second," she answered inattentively, her head twisting wildly from one side to another as she tried to relocate the flying pest. Suddenly, she heaved the Bible over her right shoulder, edging stealthily to the left wall, and with a sudden smack that caused my body to involuntarily shudder, swung it with all her strength at the bare wall.

A complete, utter, buzz-less silence fell upon the cabin. However, this only seemed to add to the child's anxiety—the book fell from her hands with an audible thud as she searched wildly for the insect's carcass on the wall. "Have I gone deaf?" she wailed, hands at her ears when she was unable to find the fly. She fell to her knees, scrambling wildly for the tome, and turned it frantically in her hands, letting out an audible sigh of relief.

I think I was beginning to understand why Jack was so frightened of his daughter…

"Pearl," I asked conversationally when my mind was unable to provide me with any comments or witty observations concerning her fly-swatting, "where did you get the Bible from?"

"Well," she began, lowering the volume to rest in her lap, "this morning I woke up, and I heard the fly, so I went up to Papa's cabin and took the heaviest-looking book I could find, which just happened to be—oh, it's not a Bible after all," she noted on checking the spine. "It's called _Nodnol ot_—wait, sorry, it's upside down." And she twisted the book in her little hands, shaking the dead fly off of the cover impatiently. "_The Whoremonger's Guide To London,_" she read cheerfully aloud.

There was a very awkward pause.

"You've _got_ to be joking."

"No, I'm being utterly serious," Pearl insisted, opening the cover to look curiously at the frontispiece and tilting her head the better to look at an image I was certain was not meant for her eyes. "It looks very graphic—"

"Pearl, give that to me _right now._"

"It's compiled by a… a Mr Jack Harris of Covent Garden," she read aloud. "Second edition—"

"_Close it._"

"It's all listed alphabetically, and there's a preface, look—" And she flicked a few pages forward, taking advantage of my seasickness and lack of balance to leap up onto the mattress, poring over the page.

She snorted as I stumbled gracelessly towards her: "'The ensuing sheets are recommended to be applied to _virtuous_ purposes,'" she read aloud, her sarcasm evident in every spoken syllable, "'and that by the most lively'—did you hear that, Sierra? _Lively_—'representations, they are intended to fail not to recommend virtue and generous principles, and to discourage'—_discourage?_ Somehow I doubt that was Mr Harris's actual intention—'and expose all sorts of vice and corruption of manners'—_Sierra!_" she protested as I pried the corrupting "discouragement of vice" away from her hand, therefore saving Pearl's impressionable young mind.

"That's highly inappropriate," I justified, although I supposed I should be thankful that it wasn't the _Kama Sutra_ or some other more detailed manual…

"But it's funny," she pouted.

"Nice try," I said with a glance in her pouting direction. "Get dressed; we're going to find some breakfast…"

****

-x!x-

AN: Well, I hoped this chapter answered a few questions… And there really was a directory called The Whoremonger's Guide To London published in the mid- to late-eighteenth century, if you were wondering where I got that from…

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VagrantCandy: I think the only question this chapter actually raised was "Why does Jack have The Whoremonger's Guide to London in his cabin?" At least I didn't intend to raise any more queries this time round…

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jennifer123: I'm very hurt and offended that you almost forgot about this story, although it's nice to know that you're still alive…

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doctress: Well, it's nice to know that someone new is reading this and has decided it's good enough to be put on their fave stories list; thank you for compliment…

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TigerTiger02: Now that I think about it, religiously-fervent Will might be a good idea; I mean, paedophilia is a much more sensitive subject to touch upon, isn't it? Although the bunnies WILL still stay… I totally agree about the whole Drag Queen day; they tend to be underappreciated everywhere excepting Las Vegas… Too Wong Foo, hmm? I have got to see that movie…

**Spirit of the Sky:** Well, I think Pearl's fly-swatting method should stick more vividly in people's minds, and I somehow doubted Jack would have just let ANYONE onto his ship…


	21. What Men Should Say

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How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

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Chapter Twenty: What Men Should Say

That first day on the _Black Pearl_ was the worst that I'd ever experienced in my life. After eventually finding the galley, I was treated to a surprisingly delicious leftover stew of some sort… Which exited my body the way it came in only mere hours later. And then I found out, from a very pretty woman by the name of Anamaria who constantly scowled at me, that as well as keeping a wary eye on the captain's daughter, my other tasks included clearing the galley as well as the dishes, making certain that various ingredients were in order. Then I had to mosey over to another cabin on the first deck that was used as a storage cupboard for medical supplies and set everything there straight. Basically, I was sent from one cabin to another the whole day, tidying and cleaning and organising. It seemed too much for a woman as lazy and disorderly as myself; doubly so if you take into account the fact that the only physical activities I willingly participated in that weren't ripped right out of the _Kama Sutra_ were usually related to cultivating my appearance. Vanity could be a terrible thing at times.

Pearl, however, had a far worse time than I did. Whether it was his determination not to show any favouritism towards his daughter, the fact that he was a heartless man of no sentiments, or just a real bastard with a sadistically warped sense of castigation, I would never know, but Jack had sent orders for Pearl to clean out the cheap wooden buckets used as chamber pots.

"Papa's so cruel," she whined to me sometime in the afternoon when, utterly exhausted and having just hacked up some more of my stew, I had collapsed on the bed with plans of dying in my sleep beginning to form within my mind. "And the crew's quarters are absolutely disgusting; they have rats and maggots in rotting food in the corners and I think I found a few missing teeth…"

"Lovely," I groaned, my hand massaging my burning throat whilst my exhausted eyes slipped closed.

"Are you going to sleep?" I heard Pearl's voice ask from far away.

"Hmm," I grunted, and within moments had lost consciousness.

When I'd returned to the land of the living, I found myself lying in inky blackness with only a single flickering lantern on the table as company. I breathed in and, once again, felt my vomit defying gravity as it rose in my throat. It looked very likely that I was going to die from excessive vomiting.

Wiping my mouth on my sleeve as I surfaced from the sick bucket for the third time that day, I looked blearily around the room, searching desperately for a mirror. Pearl was nowhere to be seen; I assumed she was jumping around the deck in a very annoying and adorable manner. Stumbling with a balance that made me very glad I had never considered the career of tightrope walking, I made my way to the little desk, opening one of the drawers.

Inside was a beautiful handheld mirror and matching brush and comb, ornately carved from ivory and inlaid with silver. I picked up one of the detangling devices in a half-dazed wonder that can only spring from a combination of nausea, vomit, and fatigue. I dug deeper into the drawer, pulling out a handful of brilliantly coloured ribbons. I even found a few bracelets; nothing too elaborate or valuable, mostly just a small stone dangling off a chain or cord.

Jack really did spoil his little girl. Within reason, perhaps, but spoiling was spoiling, no matter how low the costs were.

I picked up the mirror, and recoiled at what suddenly peered back up at me through curtains of tangled, greasy hair. There were spots of dirt on the bridge of my nose and cheek; on my forehead and above the eyebrow where I must have wiped away sweat in the day; my eyes had a dazed, sluggish quality, as though I was on some kind of marijuana. I looked absolutely horrible, and not at all like the pampered girl who constantly spends a slightly excessive amount of time at the mirror preening herself to perfection.

It was, for me, a very terrifying thought. You should have seen how close I was to tears when I realised there wasn't a decent hair conditioner in this time period, and in _this_ climate; frizz terrified the hell out me.

I dragged the comb through my oily locks, very nearly pulling my hair out of the roots the numerous times it snagged. If I hadn't been so narcissistic, I would have cropped it short long ago. As it was, I was attempting to grow it out; so practicality would have to wait until I was somewhere past sixty.

I looked dejectedly around the room, deliberately ignoring the rumbling of my stomach—what's the point of eating food if it doesn't stay in there long enough for my body to absorb any of the nutrition, anyway? My eyes fell upon the dark, perverted tome of Jack's, and I felt my stomach churn—what if Pearl had read it whilst I was recuperating from the cruel torture entitled manual labour? I made a start for the book, accidentally knocking it onto the floor as the ship made another unexpected lurch. My eyes widened in illogical panic as I watched the hardback opening as it tumbled swiftly to the floor, landing on the wood with a much too audible thud—what if Jack was one of those people that went into cardiac arrest at the thought of bent pages? I mean, he probably wouldn't murder me for it, but you never know…

I dropped to my knees and grabbed the _Whoremonger's Guide,_ wincing when I realised that some of the pages had fallen out. This must have been a very old book…

I turned the _Guide_ over, grabbing the loose papers and flattening them out against the intact pages. Despite myself, I began to read the line: _"Although neither a whore of the bulk nor alcove, the widow aforesaid has entered our pages on the merit of living as a woman of intrigue…"_

I tore my eyes away, but not before I saw a part of _"mother of seven children, including the disgraced Lord John Raven",_ and slammed the seceded sheets onto the open page. Just as I was about to close the cover, a part of the paper caught my eye, and I leaned forward, just to check that my eyes had not deceived me. I pulled out the yellowing sheet, squeezing my eyes shut and opening them again, as if the mirage would twist and change into something—well, a little more believable.

Nope, the calligraphic Chinese writing remained exactly the same as before.

Shaking my head in confusion, I slipped the Chinese page back into the _Guide_ and gently closed it, standing and moving towards the door. Hey, I wasn't going to leave _anything_ with the word "whoremonger" in the title lying around Pearl's cabin; not even if it was a thin slip of paper entitled "The Whoremonger's Guide to the Vatican".

Making my way down the corridor and up the single flight of stairs, I was surprised to see the dark, star-dotted night sky; surely I hadn't slept _that_ long, had I? Looking around the deck, I saw two or three dirty men scrubbing half-enthusiastically at the deck, whilst two or three more patrolled lazily across the floorboards. Lanterns hung from the main and mizzen-masts, and I saw, above the double doors leading into the captain's cabin, on the quarterdeck, a familiar figure steering the ship.

I made my way towards him, climbing up the steps near the cabin with the two carved mermen guarding the entrance. He turned at the sound of my footsteps, greeting me with a friendly—even if a little forced—smile. "Lovely view this evening, don't you think?" he welcomed with a gesture at the velvet sky above.

I glanced at the glittering stars overhead, shrugging indifferently. "I guess." I held out the _Whoremonger's Guide To London._ "I think this is your… guide… to London…" I said, feeling more than a little awkward at handing the rather, ah, incriminating volume over to him.

Jack, who had reached out to retrieve the book, did a double take, and snatched his hand back as though the very presence of the book burned him. "That's not mine," he said quickly, looking down at the spine where the words _The Whoremonger's Guide To London_ were accusingly stamped in gold.

"Yes, actually, it is."

"No, it really isn't."

"I have reason to believe that _this,_" and I shoved the tome directly under his nose, "_is_ one of your possessions."

"And I have more reason to decisively suppose that it _isn't,_" he maintained, pushing the black volume away from him with two fingers and looking up at me through his lashes as he kept his face indignant and innocent.

I shook my head ever so slightly, more to erase the effect his gaze was having on me than to protest my case further. (Well, it had been a long time…) "Pearl found it in your room."

Jack's brown eyes widened in comical alarm. "_Pearl?_" he parroted, looking utterly horror-struck. I couldn't help but smile at the picture he made; the fearless pirate captain standing regally at the helm of his ship, worried that his daughter was reading what I could understandably assume to be pornography. You couldn't get that from _Treasure Island._

"Yes, she did," I confirmed, enjoying the effects my words were having on him. He looked uneasily from the wheel where his hand was resting to the stairs leading down to the half-deck where his little girl was supposedly located, evidently unsure how to proceed.

"I swear on my mother's chastity that the book isn't mine," he insisted stubbornly, his free hand raised in a solemn vow.

I snorted. "Your mother couldn't have been very chaste if she gave birth to you, now, could she?"

He narrowed his eyes at me. "Are you insulting my mother? Why are you doing that? You've no right to attack her, she hasn't done anything to you—"

"Well, _you_ brought her up!"

"But that doesn't necessarily give you leave to insult the woman that brought me into this world!"

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that the woman that had brought Jack into this world did, in fact, deserve a _lot_ more than a few malicious turns of phrase, but I held my tongue and, half laughing, shoved the tome into his stomach instead. "Just take your _Whoremonger's Guide_ and end this—this—ludicrous conversation!"

He looked down at the hardback pressing into his abdomen and sighed. "Very well: I shall accept this bound manuscript—which, might I add, was _not,_ until this very moment, a book I could count as a part of my extensive collection…" I nodded, satisfied that at long last he had accepted my entirely helpful and selfless deed, and turned away.

"However…" I felt his fingers wrap around my left wrist gently, preventing me from reaching the stairs, "I think I'd rather enjoy continuing this conversation, but perhaps a little later…"

I felt myself beginning to smile, before Pearl's words from the night before came screaming back to me. "Why's that?" I asked lightly. "Because it's quite obvious we won't exactly be talking…"

"Now what on God's green earth would give you that idea?" he asked of me, his eyes widened in artificial innocence. I shook my head, declining his offer, and tried to move away, but his grip only tightened. "That's a rather unfair presumption on my part; I might actually be harbouring a genuine interest for you and—"

"In using the term 'might', you are implying that you don't actually harbour any interest in me at all," I pointed out. And it usually wouldn't have bothered me, but…

"That's all just a matter of wording, though," he brushed off, "and 'might' implies that I _do_ much more greatly than it suggests that I don't…"

"Yeah, but why would you want to waste time talking to me when you already know everything about me? I mean, I'm just a whore, aren't I?" His grip slackened in surprise at hearing his own words being cheerfully thrown back at him, and I immediately stalked away before he could grasp my wrist again. Reaching the top of the stairs, I paused, swirling back to face him. "Oh, and Jack?" I called sweetly. "My name isn't Sahara. That's a desert in northern Africa." And I slipped down the steps, hand on the railing for balance, and made my way to the captain's cabin.

"Oh, you're awake," Pearl noted sleepily in surprise, closing the worn brown book she'd been using as a pillow. I lifted her up in my arms, and she leaned her head against my shoulder, yawning adorably. "Can I take that book with me?" she asked endearingly of me.

Warily, I glanced at the spine: _The Seaman's Grammar._ Although why sailors needed English lessons was slightly beyond me… "Of course," I told her, attempting to scoop up the well-used item without dropping the child. She twisted in my grip and reached down to pick the volume up for me, settling her arms comfortably round my neck, and I made my way through the open doors. Above me I heard Jack and the vaguely familiar voice of that man Pearl and I had found sleeping with the pigs arguing quietly but heatedly. Idly, I wondered if it was about me and my given name, but then I dismissed the thought when I heard something about "much too far for a second venture, ye daft blighter".

I made my way down the stairs, counting the doors and opening one that led into a dusty cabin full of what looked like unwanted loot. I tried the next one down, which was locked, but the third looked vaguely familiar in the faint lantern light. I settled Pearl down onto the mattress, and she immediately curled up into a ball, twisting her head into a more comfortable position on the pillow, and I pulled the ruffled blanket over her. I smoothed her hair away from her forehead, and looked down at her sleeping face without actually seeing her.

I was wondering if coming onto the _Black Pearl_ was the right decision after all. Don't get me wrong; I absolutely adored Pearl, but I was beginning to get the vaguest feeling that a pirate's life just wasn't for me. I should have just stayed in Tortuga and wave Pearl off. Yes, I would still be a whore, but only for a few more weeks; Andrew had said he'll buy me from the Garter when he'd returned from a little "business" trip. Unless…

Unless he was lying. But he couldn't have been… could he? My eyes narrowed in thought. Andrew had seemed… very enthusiastic. And hasty; the time that passed between the first time we met and when he'd proposed was not sufficient enough for two people to actually get to _know_ each other. And this… "business" of his was surprisingly conveniently timed…

I felt my cheeks heating at my utter stupidity. Of course Andrew hadn't actually meant to marry me—I hadn't even gotten a ring! His ship had just been unfit for sailing when he'd first sailed into Tortuga, so he just thought he'll have some fun and embarked on a three-month fling with the first whore that he'd met. And I was just so surprised and overwhelmed with actually meeting a man that didn't treat me like a blow-up doll, I just fell for him immediately. He'd acted completely desperate and needy, just so I would take pity for him and fall for his little performance… In a way, he was very similar to Jack. But at least Jack didn't make any false promises to me.

I looked towards the partly open door, feeling my body shaking with anger. The strangest urge to gain vengeance on Andrew _and_ prove to myself that I wasn't in the least affected by his using me in the way that he had surged within me. With one last glance at Pearl's sleeping form, I strode to the table, opening the door of the lantern and blowing the candle out. The sudden darkness that fell upon the cabin meant that yet again I had to use my _wonderful_ sense of direction and attempt to find the half-open door. Turning, I stumbled forward with my hands in front of me, feeling my palms meet the smoothed wooden surface of the wall.

I'd half-expected that; clearly my arrogance was beginning to wane. My hands continued to slide against the wall, until at long last I felt the slightly raised frame, and I grabbed the edge of the door and slowly pulled back. Thankfully, the hinges didn't creak as much as I'd expected. When I was out in the hallway, I turned back to the black cabin where Pearl slept peacefully and quietly pulled the door shut. I turned my head to the right, seeing the faintest glow of lanterns falling upon the stairs, and started forward.

I was surprised that nobody commented on my presence as I stole across the deck, looking up towards the helm. The gently glowing light of the lanterns illuminated a raven-haired figure in a straw hat grasping the wheel firmly; that must've meant that Jack was in his cabin, then.

Good.

Taking six or seven steps, I rapped smartly on one of the closed doors, pulling it open before Jack even had the chance to reply.

The many candles scattered throughout the large cabin cast a flickering light on a hatless Jack Sparrow, comically frozen in the act of removing his coat. "What's the matter?" he asked of me, clearly caught off guard at my unannounced appearance. I shook my head, closing the door behind me and turning the key. Just in case, I slid the bolt from across one door to the other, and spun to face him, uncertain how next to proceed.

Jack was simply staring at his doors as though he'd never seen such a thing in his life. Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to meet my gaze as I started towards him, right hand rising with a faintly questioning index finger. "What—" he began, but I interrupted his question by burying a hand into his hair and raising myself ever so slightly on my toes the better to kiss him fiercely and fervently.

I bit my lip to hold back my laughter when I'd pulled away. Jack stood there, finger still raised, kohl-smudged eyes gently closed, lips ever so faintly puckered. He opened his eyes, blinked rapidly a few times, and shook his head, causing his various hair accessories to clink. "Alright, love, I'm a little perplexed—"

My fingers unbuckled the belt-like gun holster he wore slung over his shoulder, slipping it off and setting it down on the table, right next to the open _Whoremonger's Guide To London,_ and I wordlessly started on his belt.

"Well, I'll admit I'm past perplexed and am just plain bewildered…" He watched in disbelief as I set the leather strap next to the holster and began to untie the faded streaked sash around his slim waist.

"Uh, love?" I looked up from the knot I was working on and met his faintly astonished gaze. "If you could offer me an explanation so that I can get some sort of idea of what startlingly rare variety of logic it is that you're using, exactly, might you please tell me precisely what the hell it is that you think you're doing—"

"Am I not good enough for you or something?" I asked, lowering my hands to rest on my skirt.

"No! No no no no, it's nothing like that at all—I just don't really understand you…" He paused, clearly about to elaborate, but then I began my very short little soliloquy.

"It's because you don't actually _know_ me, you see," I explained, resuming my work on the obstinate knot. "You know, because we've only actually talked for five whole minutes since we'd met—how long ago? Four, five months, right?"

"Actually, five months and three weeks," he quipped unexpectedly. "You were that lovely little nun I'd met in one of the French settlements of Hispaniola, were you not?" I'd completely forgotten about that first encounter; I looked up from my untangling, surprised that he, of all people, still recalled _that_ when he wasn't even certain of my name.

"How can you still remember that?" I asked of him, my mind swirling with a wide array of reasons; he'd never forgotten the first time he saw my eyes, or heard my voice, or saw my smile… (If I had for some suicidal reason been smiling.)

What he'd said in return was _not_ inkeeping with that list. "Well, I'm not certain about other men, but it's not every day that _I_ impersonate a cleric of the Church of England…"

I narrowed my eyes at the completely inoffensive answer. Did the man know _nothing_ about women? "That's the wrong thing to say," I informed him.

"Beg pardon?" he said, clearly caught unawares by my surprise reprimand.

"To a woman," I continued. ""When you're in a situation such as _this_—" I slipped my finger between the sash and his breeches and gave the stubborn knot a hard pull that caused Jack's body to jerk towards me "—you don't _ever_ say something like that."

"But it's the truth; it's how I remember that day: I impersonated a priest."

"That may be," I replied, "but in a romantic situation such as this, you should be saying something so disgustingly clichéd it sends even a schoolgirl screaming for a sick bucket, such as 'That was the first time I saw your breathtaking beauty, and I'll never forget it.'"

"'That was the first time I ever saw your heavenly breathtaking beauty,'" Jack mimicked, looking down into my eyes, "'and I'll never forget the day I first saw one of God's holy angels.'"

"That would have been a lot more effective if you weren't so bloody sarcastic," I snapped at him. "Be romantic."

"The position we find ourselves in can hardly be described as _romantic,_" Jack pointed out. "You slip in, you lock the door, and now you're stripping me—that's not romantic, Sierra: it's unnerving." I glanced pointedly down at his breeches, raising an eyebrow. "…But it's also seductive, so I'm really not complaining," he amended, smiling sheepishly when I'd raised my eyes to his.

"Well, I was trying to be seductive, not romantic."

"Then why are you asking me to play the lovesick pup now?" he demanded, visibly somewhat baffled.

At long last, I pulled the sash from around his waist, twirling it in my fingers as I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. "I don't know—it was just a really random whim! I'll still end up in your bed tonight, whether romance is involved or no."

"Well in that case…" Jack suddenly growled, and he grabbed my arms and pushed me towards the bed.

…I hoped we weren't loud enough to attract any attention from the crew…

****

-x!x-

**AN:** Seeing how I'm already pushing the "T" rating to the limit, I'll stop right there. Oh, and I only need ten more reviews to 100, so if all of you can click on that little button, I'll greatly appreciate it…

**blushingbeauty86:** Actually I've changed the fetish into a bunny phobia… but how I'll write a rabbit in is beyond me… And yep, I do put my characters through hell; I'm kinda sadistic that way. And you'll be highly idealistic if you think that everything's going to be all roses from here on…

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VagrantCandy: It's a good thing you don't want to know, because I'm doubting you'll ever actually find out exactly WHY Jack has a Whoremonger's Guide to London… At least until I think of a reason…

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love2rite: Thanks; it's nice to know you're still here reading this!

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TigerTiger02: Fear not, there's absolutely no way Will would possibly commit bestiality with bunnies; donkeys? Perhaps… Yeah, I wasn't certain if I should put the whole religious fanaticism in in case some people got offended, but then I realised that if a person was to read on after what I described happen to Pearl, either they didn't offend very easily, or just didn't take things personally as an insult, which wasn't at all what I'd intended it to be; I respect all religious beliefs. Anyway; I've seen three films so far that focuses on drag queens: Stage Beauty, which dealt with the introduction of actresses to the stage in seventeenth-century London; Beautiful Boxer, which is a Thai drama based on a true story; and I'm A Lady, a Thai comedy which deals with a group of college-bound drag queens creating a cheerleading squad because the college's captain won't allow "fags"; I'm just going to order a bunch of DVDs from Amazon this Christmas…

**Little Miss Anapants:** That's OK, you've a legitimate, even if cruel, reason… The fly-swatting idea I got from my friend, who was once up all night trying to murder an annoying fly; I knew other people had the same problem…

**Emiline Grace:** Thank you very much for the compliment; was there anything particular that you liked, or anything that you think this could've done without?

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Anne la Jordanie: She WAS sick on the way to Tortuga—in 865 different ways. Go back to the chapter "An Introduction to Society and Piracy" and control-find the word "lesbianism", then read that paragraph if you doubt me… Ugg boots? Aren't they those really fluffy furry "fashion" accessories that look as though the designer was an Eskimo on an expedition across the North Pole? And… coral? Does the typical American teenager have NO fashion sense whatsoever? Sadly, Goths aren't more common here; unless you happen to live in Camden…


	22. Sierra’s Allure

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Twenty-One: Sierra's Allure

I stared at the thing in front of me in terror, rooted to the floor in fear. There was just so many of them, it was like they'd all climbed upon each other and formed one giant super-mound of filth and pain and… and… and… and broken nails. I looked down at my hands in despair; who was I kidding? They'd long since been filed down to my fingertips; as for the varnish, well, I'd picked it off the moment I realised that glittery nails of the floral nature tended to raise a few eyebrows and, for a couple of randomly placed Puritans, demands of a pyre and questions regarding the whereabouts of my familiar. I think the better question would have been, "Why are there two Puritans in a Tortugan brothel?" They were not amused.

"Are you just going to stand there all day, or are you actually gonna get a start on the dishes, wench?" a harsh female voice laced with annoyance hissed at me.

"I can't," I told the terrifyingly sadistic Anamaria.

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"There's too many of them! My God, how much do you people eat!"

"There'll be less to wash if you spent less time in the captain's bed and more time in the galley like you s'posed to!"

That shut me up. But the truth was… Well, ever since I'd set foot upon the _Pearl_ two weeks ago, I'd only slept with Jack, um, once. He wasn't actually interested in me. I didn't mean he wasn't exactly interested in my mind—I already knew _that_—but he wasn't paying my body any attention either, which was horrifying. I'd nearly fainted from shock when I'd realised that the five-foot seven-inches or so of meticulously-toned, precisely-dieted flesh that was me held no interest for any of the men on the ship—who, by the way, very rarely saw their wives, assuming they had any. It did wonders for my self-esteem, I'll tell you.

So, technically speaking, it was the ever rebellious Pearl running around and getting various threats of being thrown overboard, from Jack and his bellowing from across the deck to a mute sailor's parrot whose name I didn't know screeching "Walk the plank!" as he flapped overhead that was the main cause of the desertion of my duties, not because I'd been warming any man's bed.

Anamaria's threateningly-raised finger as I meekly attempted to communicate these facts to her had me cowering behind the mound of dishes. "We don't have anymore dinnerware left, and this here's a woman's job, alright?"

"Then why don't _you_ do it?" I asked her timidly. Anamaria wasn't particularly tall or broad-shouldered—on the contrary, she was only half an inch (if that) taller than I, and aggravatingly slim and toned. I couldn't say that her face was disgustingly repulsive or cruel—she had beautiful brown eyes and soft, unblemished skin, a lovely bronze that betrayed her African parentage…

She was, more or less, extremely pretty.

…But there was something about the way that she raised her index finger that had me cowering in fear behind a pile of dirty dishes…

"I _did!_" she half-bellowed, and I nearly knocked a precariously-balanced bowl onto the floor. "I've washed these dishes every evening since I'd been sailing on the _Pearl_, and every night when we was on the _Interceptor_, and I have the proof!" And she threw her hands towards me in what I had at the time took to be a ferocious manner but would later realise was, in fact, a gesture of the utmost despair. Nevertheless, I let out a squeak of fear, ducking behind the dishes. When neither venomous darts nor various daggers were embedded in the wall above me, I hesitantly straightened, peering over a crooked pile of plates in fear.

Anamaria still had her hands stretched out in front of her, looking expectantly at me. Timidly, I moved around the wooden structure that housed the _Black Pearl_'s fine collection of stolen dinnerware.

"Take them," she told me.

I did whilst wondering if she was like one of those tropical frogs with poisoned skin and if this was her subtle way of killing an annoying whore that she'd come to despise. We stood there together, the proud pirate in her loose cream shirt and coffee-coloured breeches and the historically-misplaced trollop, holding hands in the galley of a pirate ship.

"Um… Is something meant to happen?" I questioned tentatively.

"Can you feel the skin?" she asked. "Run your fingers over the back."

I lightly brushed the skin of my thumb over the backs of both her hands.

"Can you feel that?"

"Um…"

"It's all dry and chapped!" The distinctly feminine wail had me darting back to my hiding place. When I'd looked back, she was looking down at both her palms in despair. "My skin's very sensitive, y'know! Just like my ma's! Contact with perfumed soap, and I'll come out in a rash faster than Jack's out of his breeches!" I raised an eyebrow at her intriguing choice of metaphor as her hands fell dejectedly to her sides and she regarded me with tearful eyes. "Do you know how red my hands were each and every time after I washed the dishes?" she wailed. "An' on a ship, I have to tie the knots and hoist the sails and steer the tiller, and by evening I can't even turn the door handle without excruciating pain…"

The majority of humanity will never understand the sudden empathy I felt towards Anamaria at that very moment; that precious kinship that can only exist between a woman who can't wash the dishes and a woman too lazy to embark upon such a task was a very rare thing indeed. Cautiously, I moved back towards the distraught sailor, taking one of her hands in my own and looking meaningfully into her eyes.

"Oh, Ana," I sighed in sympathy, "I had no idea you had such an allergy…"

"Well, I do, alright?" she half-snapped, half-whimpered. "But I don't tell nobody 'cause it's hard enough being a woman pirate without the added humiliation of sensitive skin…"

"I'll keep your secret," I swore, raising my right hand and placing it over my heart. "But you should have told me this from the very beginning; there's so much I could do to help…"

Her dark head snapped up to look at me. "Really? Like what?" she asked eagerly.

"Well…" I replied, wracking my head for a brainwave. "You know, I could recommend a hand cream of some kind. Aloe vera's always a safe choice…"

"Aloe vera?" she repeated.

"Yeah, it's… Well, I don't know if it grows around here, but it's like this tropical plant, and the leaves contain this… this special balm thing, and if you mix that with water and some other stuff, you get this really good moisturiser that keeps your skin _so_ smooth…"

Judging by her expression, Anamaria hadn't the faintest idea what I was on about. "Aloe vera," she repeated with more than an undertone of sceptism.

"Uh-huh; aloe vera," I affirmed.

"I don't believe it," she declared. "Either you have soft skin or you don't, that's just how the world is…"

"Aloe vera does work!" I argued, feeling overwhelmingly defensive towards the plant.

"Prove it," she countered.

I held out my palm. "You touch my hand and you tell me that's not soft," I challenged.

Her eyes widened in awe as her fingertips flitted over the skin. "You've such smooth hands!" she exclaimed. "How did you—?"

My answer was merely further singing of aloe vera's praises. "It's not just my hands," I added, suddenly struck by divine inspiration. "My entire skin's benefited from aloe vera, touch my arm—"

She prodded my inner elbow. "But that's naturally smooth," she derided, refusing to be swayed. "That's a protected part of the body, not subjected to everyday weather and—"

"Touch my face!" I continued. Throwing up every meal I'd consumed had the strange side effect of making me a firm aloe vera supporter. "Stroke my nose! That's _definitely_ subjected to everyday weather!"

A pause as she shot me a very odd look. "You want me to stroke your nose?"

"Why not?" I said, a hurt pout overtaking my features. I wriggled the appendage under such discussion. "It won't bite, you know."

"But it's your nose!" was Anamaria's only argument.

"So?"

"So you don't just go around stroking people's noses! It's just not done!"

A mischievous grin pulled at my lips. "Believe me, Ana, there are parts of the body far less appropriate for you to stroke."

She didn't seem to be aware of my less-than-respectable meaning, looking at me in confusion. "…I see," she said in a tone that implied that she didn't. Her innocence was adorable. "But even so, stroking a person's nose…"

"You'll be insulting my nose if you don't stroke it," I told her. "Is it too big? Is my nose not good enough to have the honour of feeling your fingertip brushing the aloe vera-moisturised bridge?"

"But I've never stroked a person's nose before, it's just so—"

"There's a first time for everything." At her hesitation, I continued, "Come on, Ana, you don't want to go through life a nose-stroking virgin, do you?"

She gave me a very odd look. "…Alright," she agreed, index finger hesitantly tapping the tip.

"That has got to be, without a doubt, the strangest experience I've ever had," she told me when she'd pulled her hand away.

"See, it wasn't so bad, was it?"

"Your nose was very soft though," she complimented. "May I—?"

"By all means," I permitted. Anything to distract Anamaria from my sink-load of dishes…

The sound of another human being clearing his throat had both of us jumping away.

"Jack, I didn't see you there!" I exclaimed stupidly, hand going up to shield my fondled nostrils from his confused and slightly disturbed stare.

"I originally came down here to see exactly what could possibly be happening in galley that preoccupied Anamaria so," he began, his dark gaze shifting from me to the sheepish pirate. "And then I realised you were doing _this._"

"She made me do it!" Anamaria defended, wildly pointing her finger at me. "I tried to say no, but she has such a tenacious nose, I had no choice but to stroke it!" She paused to shoot me an apologetic look before turning her gaze back to Jack. "She forced her nose upon me," she said solemnly.

Jack tilted his head with a faint clink of beads, frowning at the mulatto. "Anamaria, are you in anyway suggesting that you were raped by Sierra's nose?"

"…In a sense…" she muttered in a small voice. I saw her golden cheeks darkening with humiliation.

"Go take the wheel from Mr Cotton, Ana," Jack ordered suddenly, his voice immediately low and commanding.

With an inaudible sigh of relief, Anamaria scuttled out of the doorway, pausing only once to give me a small, apologetic smile over her shoulder.

When her footsteps had faded up the stairs, Jack immediately turned his businesslike gaze upon me. "I can understand how you've your hands full with Pearl, but that doesn't mean you can simply forego the other tasks I've assigned to you, particularly a responsibility as simple as cleaning dishes—"

I interrupted him with a wild wave of my hand. "You call _that_ simple?" I asked him with widened eyes.

"Well, if you'll rather climb up the mainmast in order to unfurl the sails and risk breaking your neck, by all means—"

"B—But you _can't_ possibly expect me to watch over your child _and_ clean this ship like some kind of housewife—"

"You won't have to juggle both for long," he interrupted, and I immediately shut up, looking confusedly at him.

"What?"

He shook his head. "Don't worry," he reassured me, turning away. "Just have all those pots and pans in some state of sanitation by dawn, alright?"

"No!" I automatically cried out at his immediate retreat. "Jack! Wait!"

He paused mid-stride and swivelled on his heel to look questioningly at me as I stood nervously in front of him, fidgeting with my skirt, my eyes examining the patterns of the wooden floorboards. Finally, I raised my head. "What do you mean by that?" I asked again. "That I don't have to worry about both for long?"

He smiled brightly at me, striding confidently back. It was only then that I noticed that he wasn't swaying drunkenly from side to side; rather, he was walking utterly upright, standing tall and completely unaffected by the waves. The only reason I'd noticed was because I suddenly realised how masculine his gait had become; before, I'd always thought he'd resembled a drunken woman, but now, he was the complete opposite: sober and manly. Well, to a certain extent…

"Don't you worry," he said, kissing my forehead in what would have been an affectionate had there been any relationship between the two of us. "Your only concern at the moment is the cleanliness of our cooking implements, alright love?" He drew back, about to turn away, before he suddenly frowned, tilting his head and staring at me.

"What?" I asked, slightly unnerved as to how his eyes _weren't_ dropping to my plunging neckline.

His response was to reach out a ring-adorned hand and pat my nose. "That _is_ soft," he concluded appreciatively. "Why hadn't I noticed before…?"

I shrugged. "You weren't exactly intrigued by my nose before this whole incident…"

"Well then, I'll have to pay your nose more attention in future," he noted. He tilted his head once again, narrowing his eyes.

"What now?" I asked, more than a little bewildered.

"I never realised how pretty your nose was until this very moment," he explained.

I stared at him. "Um, thanks. But you know, that's not exactly what a girl likes to be complimented on…"

He waved my suggestion away. "Look, I'm certain that there have been many drooling fools before me—and there'll be a fair few after, I'll wager—telling you that you've eyes like the ocean and lips like rosebuds and breasts like—" Here he paused, struggling as to what metaphor to use, before wisely deciding to skip it altogether. "Perfectly formed, and more than a little distracting," he'd settled for, and I shrugged my approval. "But I sincerely doubt that you've been told you've a beautiful nose," he concluded.

"Yeah, well… Thanks, Jack," I decided to reply. "That's sweet of you to say."

"I know." He gave my aloe vera-moisturised hand a gentlemanly kiss and was out of the door, walking in his newfound masculine fashion. I heard a step creak before his head suddenly whipped around the doorframe, finger raised in triumph. "Breasts like Venus!" he announced. "You've breasts like Venus!"

I responded by placing my hands on my hips, shifting my weight to one leg, tilting my head to the side, and raising my eyebrow.

"…I'll be in my cabin if you need me," he'd responded sheepishly, and shuffled away, leaving me alone with my "simple" responsibility.

Turning, I took in the sight that greeted me in depression. Anamaria wasn't going to be the only one in desperate need of aloe vera for long…

-x!x-

AN: Sorry for the later update, but now that summer's over I don't exactly have as much time on my hands. I will keep working on this, though, so hold on. Also, I'm taking a vote: who thinks I should raise the rating of this fic? Show of hands.

Spikez-babe91: Don't worry, I'm not one of those people who won't update until they get X number of chapters, but thanks for reviewing anyway.

VagrantCandy: Yeah, I'd been thinking of changing the rating as well, but I'll wait for general public vote to decide that for me. It would be a good idea though… I never really thought of Jack as being romantic either, but to be honest, I think I prefer him funny and insane and… Jack-like…

blushingbeauty86: Pearl could always tattoo a bunny onto Jack's foot or something at the tender age of five. Yes, you could say that it was a traumatic childhood memory… To a certain extent… Glad you think that Jack was in character; I figured that having him scared at first before switching completely was something that Jack would do. How's life been for you? I hope it's not too hectic!

TigerTiger02: Sierra can attempt to romanticise Jack. She'll fail but she can try. Let's just keep him as he is, that's more fun that way…

Anne la Jordanie: I'm stealing your suggestions as to how the Whoremonger's Guide appeared… Kinda. Let's just say it's pretty disappointing and leave it at that. Pink with startling regularity, hmm? Maybe it compliments his colouring or something. See, in England we don't have this problem: in uniforms, everybody looks stupid.

**Emiline Grace:** Originally, I was concentrating on the way it was written than the actual plot. Now it has both, which can only be a good thing. I loved that line too; credit must be given to Mae West. At least, I think that's her name…

**Little Miss Anapants:** Don't worry about the whole reviewing thing, at least you DO review! I understand that some things are more important; hell, I have exams and stuff coming up, so don't worry, you're not alone. Oh, and Andrew wasn't lying, in case you're still wondering. He was just… delayed…


	23. Pearl’s Favourite Song

****

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

__

Chapter Twenty-Two: Pearl's Favourite Song

"Where were you yesterday?" Pearl asked me the next morning as I rolled off of the bed and straight into the sick bucket (not as pleasant as it sounds). The child was lying on the mattress on her front, elbows propped upon a pillow, face resting in between her hands as she regarded my crumpled form in curiosity. I shook my head, my arms flung over my skull, and groaned in pain.

I heard two thumps as Pearl's feet hit the bare floorboards, and I felt her small hands gently yanking at my arms until they were positioned on either side of my head. Then she very carefully rolled my body over, slipping a pillow under my skull, and curled up next to me, her head resting on my stomach.

Slipping my eyelids half-open, my hand lazily went to rest on her silky hair. "How was your day?" I asked of her.

"I got my first rope burn," she'd replied happily.

I sat up immediately, and she responded by shifting her head from my abdomen to my lap, waving her bandaged right hand. "I'm excused from all my chores today," she sang. "You should have seen Papa yesterday—he nearly had Mr Connelly skinned alive!"

I frowned, unfamiliar as to who Mr Connelly was. "And what did he do?" I asked of her.

"Well," she began very sweetly, "he was one of the crew who were tying all of the ropes and knots—you know, to keep the sails open. Well, I started climbing after Mr Connelly had finished all of his—he was the first one to finish—and one of them came lose, and I fell a little bit, and the rope slipped through my hand all too quickly, and then I just remember lying on the deck, and before I knew it Daddy had picked me up and taken me back to his cabin and made sure I was alright, and then he went out and started shouting very loudly because he was very angry, and now Mr Connelly is spending the next three days in the brig."

I frowned at the injustice of this sentence. "All because you got a rope burn?" I asked of her. "Mr Connelly must've done more than that—that seems a little too harsh."

She shook her head. "It wasn't because I got hurt, Sierra," she said, "although that was probably the main reason why Papa lost his temper. The reason Mr Connelly is in the brig is because he should have secured the sails better than he did. If he'd done it properly, then none of this would have ever happened."

"But three days in the brig is a little too hard for simply not tying a knot correctly—"

"Other men would have whipped him for less," Pearl cut in, drawing away to look incredulously into my eyes. "Sierra, if a mistake's been made with the canvas, then it jeopardises the whole ship—if we were heading straight for a reef, for example, and we didn't have enough wind to change direction, we'll all drown. Papa is being too gentle with Mr Connelly—he's even allowing him food and drink!"

I could see Pearl's rather twisted and sadistic point of view, but I still didn't agree entirely with Jack's handling of the whole incident. "Why didn't your father just give him a warning instead?"

"He has to make an example, Sierra," Pearl replied softly. "But if it means that much to you, I think you'll be taking all of his meals down to him."

"I don't even know where the brig is," I told the girl.

"Follow the overwhelming stench," she'd advised, standing and offering me her hands. "Come on, Sierra, you need feeding. You haven't eaten in two days."

"That's because I keep throwing it all up again; what's the point—"

"Keep trying," she told me. "It'll pass soon."

There were only a handful of men in the galley; the meals on the _Pearl_ weren't exactly tightly regulated according to a schedule. It was all a matter of who was on duty, who'd just completed the night watch, and who had the energy to get up and shovel a suspiciously-moving porridge into their mouths. All I could manage were seven mouthfuls of the warm cream-coloured concoction and a few sips of stale water before I'd pushed both bowl and glass away, shaking my head when Pearl looked up at me in concern.

"You really should be eating more," she told me. "It might not be French cuisine, but you'll starve yourself to death if you keep going on like this, and then who else can Papa say has the breasts of Venus?"

My head had shot up to stare at her. "_What?_"

She shrugged her scrawny shoulders. "What, did you think that Papa was talking all that rubbish of you having eyes of the ocean and lips like rosebuds of his own accord?"

"…You told him to say that?" I asked, slightly horrified.

"No, I told him to go and be welcoming and compliment you and—and… and be a little bit more romantic…"

I narrowed my eyes at her—how did she know about _that?_ She certainly wasn't present when I'd asked Jack of that request…

"Well, Papa wasn't really paying you any attention, was he?" she asked. "And I wanted him to be friendly—I didn't want you to leave me alone here just because Papa was being rude…"

I smiled at her utter sincerity, bending my head to kiss her cheek and hugging her. "I'm here because you asked me to, remember?" I reminded. "Don't worry about me leaving you—I'll stay here for as long as you need me. Regardless of Jack's attitude towards me."

She lowered her feathery lashes. "I don't know why he's the way he is with you, though," she murmured low enough so that only I could hear. "He won't have anything to do with you personally because he thinks that you're just a—a—a—a—a whore, but I know that he'll love you as much as I do if he'll actually spend more time with you…"

"I don't care for Jack's affections," I told her, sounding more defensive than I had hoped. "You're my main priority right now, alright? I'm here because of you, and I'll stay until you tire of me."

Pearl let out a disbelieving snort. "I don't believe you," she stated.

"Well, I don't!" I insisted in a heated whisper—this _was_ a semi-public place, after all.

"Yes, you do!" She was absolutely ecstatic, her sapphire eyes sparkling, lips parted in a wide grin.

"No, I don't!" I was aware of a few men shooting us both a few looks; one of them, a middle-aged man with a tacky white wig, pointed and asked one of his friends rather loudly who we were and why hadn't he seen us before?

"Sparrow's daughter and… some woman," replied his companion, a bald dwarf with a braided beard, happily lapping up his own breakfast and not at all seeming to mind the suspicious-looking meat floating in the sea of porridge.

"No one ever tells me anything!" humped the first man, throwing his spoon down in protest, which the dwarf clearly took to be the beginning of a hunger strike, happily sliding the bowl towards him. Really, what the hell is up with that wig? I'd never seen anything quite like it before. Hence why I ducked my head when his gaze flashed towards me. Pearl, however, took it to be a sign of embarrassment, a confirmation of her theory.

"You _do!_" she squealed a little too loudly. I had a desperate yearning for duck tape.

"_Pearl,_ can you please quieten down—"

"You do! You do! You're in love with Pa—"

I slammed a hand firmly to her mouth, muffling the rest of her sentence and earning a stifled yelp of protest. My glare fiercely quietened the singing child. Satisfied, I moved my arm back to my side.

"You're in love with Papa! You're in love with my—"

I shoved a spoon laced with the slimy victuals into her open mouth, wrapped an arm around her waist, and hurriedly made my exit from the galley in the clumsiest manner known to mankind…

…Only to sheepishly slip back in a moment later, a singing Pearl in tow. Leaving her to do her little dance in the dining quarter, I pushed open the door leading into the little cramped kitchen to see Anamaria and the cook, Doyle or something, arguing heatedly. I gathered it was about her hands.

"Look at that!" she was saying, holding out her left palm. "This is abuse! It's exploitation! A violation of basic women's rights!"

Doyle was also cowering behind the decidedly smaller pile of dishes. "Miss Anamaria…" he started timidly.

"It's cruel!" she screeched, and his head ducked right back down again. Idly I wondered if I'll be subjected to much the same treatment. What if aloe vera failed to earn her respect? Then what would become of me? When it came to relationships with other women, beauty advice was my secret weapon. Not that either of us saw aloe vera as a product of beautification; personally, I saw it as a basic necessity. "Slavery is what it is!"

Doyle's temper had snapped. "Well there's something to be said there, isn't there?"

"And what's that s'posed to mean?" Anamaria hissed dangerously. By now I was cowering next to a rack of various vegetables.

He straightened himself to his full height of six-foot seven, clearly realising that it was ridiculous to be intimidated by a woman a whole foot shorter, and gave her body a derisive once-over.

"Well, you're not good for much else, are you?"

"I'm sorry?" she replied in a tone that clearly said that she wasn't.

"Bloody hell, wench, you know exactly what I mean!" Doyle hissed. "Look at you! Who'll have a half-breed like you for a _whore,_ let alone a wife? No man would want you, will he?"

Judging from the irately incredulous expression Anamaria wore on her face, she didn't want a man either.

"And you can't exactly be a bed warmer for any bloke, can you? Who'll bloody have you? No Negro will want you 'cause you're too light, but not Englishman will want you neither, you're black." There was a definite malicious triumph in his voice now. Judging from Anamaria's clenched fists and shaking shoulders, he'd hit a nerve. "You're not even pretty, not like that whore that's mother of the cap'n's bastard—"

I grabbed a potato and launched it at Doyle's repulsively sneering face. It hit him squarely in his black-tarred teeth. The sudden missile was a nonverbal gesture for Anamaria to draw back her own fist and punch him squarely in the nose. Before Doyle had a chance to recover, she'd grabbed the front of his filthy shirt in both her fists and violently slammed his head against the sink. The sound of dishes cracking echoed in the little room as Doyle's unconscious body slid down to the floor.

Anamaria turned to me in cold rage as my hands stole to my mouth in horror. "Is he alright?" I questioned, more out of courtesy than anything else.

Her response was to kick at his reproductive organs six times. It was a shame he was unable to feel the pain.

I winced, rushing towards the cook and kneeling beside him. "Help me move him," I asked Anamaria.

She looked at me incredulously, her shoulders still shaking.

"Did you hear what he said!"'

"Yes, but I'm not helping him," I told her. "It's just that I need to wash up, and I don't particularly like the idea that he could be looking up my skirt at any given moment…"

"That's only fair," Anamaria agreed, crouching down and grabbing his other arm. She seemed to be particularly delighted when I'd accidentally let his shirt slip through my fingers and his head fell back against the wooden rack, shaking a carrot or two onto the ground.

"Where's the lass?" she asked me when we'd successfully bundled Doyle into a ball in a corner. It was a mutual agreement that the unconscious cook should be positioned in such a way that his skull was constantly battered by the door as it opened and closed. We even tested to see if this would be the case.

As if on cue, Pearl burst into another chorus of "Sierra loves my daddy!" Out of the corner of my eye I saw her do a little jig.

"Ah," Anamaria said, craning her neck the better to observe the dark-haired child whilst I buried my head in my hands as a gesture of utter mortification. "Is that the hornpipe?"

"I don't know," I told her tearfully, hurriedly slamming the door shut again. "But she's been like this all morning, and she just won't stop…"

Anamaria laughed, patting me on the back. "I don't see why you're so embarrassed," she told me mirthfully, although there was still a trace of ferocity in her voice. "Actually, I think I do; I'll be horrified if I was married to Jack Sparrow as well…"

"Yeah, it's horrible," I agreed before her words eventually registered in my mind.

"Although it _is_ nice to see a marriage of love as opposed to a marriage of convenience," she continued, apparently unaware of my bulging eyes and gaping mouth.

"Sorry," I said, "can you run that by me once more for affirmation objectives?"

"Well, you know," she told me. "You hear and see all of these couples where the husband and wife are constantly at each other's throats, and you never hear of any actual love between the spouses, it's all arranged or because she wants his money or something…"

"Uh huh," I nodded encouragingly. "What's that got to do with me?"

"To be honest, I was surprised at hearing Sparrow had found a woman who'll have him—and when I first met you, and saw how you act round each other, I thought that you were just a simpering heiress he'd married for gold, but if your only daughter's happy like that, then it must mean that her parents have some semblance of love between them…"

I stared at her in bewilderment.

"…Don't you think it slightly odd my daughter refers to me by name?"

"I thought she was one of them extremely pretentious children—"

"Pearl's not my daughter," I said quickly. "Well, she is—I mean, she isn't! I mean, she's pretentious—well, I wouldn't call her pretentious, more precocious… And I'll be really surprised if I was married to Jack Sparrow."

Anamaria's brow furrowed in confusion. "But then why are _you_ here?" she asked me suddenly.

"Sorry?"

"I mean, why are you here?" she said. "How'd you get on board if you're not Jack's wife or even mother of his child?"

I gaped wordlessly at her. "I… I just…" I swallowed nervously at Anamaria's wary gaze. "Well…"

Anamaria had narrowed her eyes at me in suspicion.

"I was smuggled onboard," I told her. "Jack had never actually wanted me. Tried to throw me off, but then realised that was a tad cruel, considering how I was not technically at fault…"

A sympathetic smile stole across her features. "And here I was thinking his sudden distance from you was because you was married…"

I shrugged awkwardly, feeling as though I'll gladly swap this private distrustful scrutiny of Anamaria's for a thousand verses of "Sierra loves my daddy."

Anamaria frowned, sticking out her lower lip in thought. "So the poppet smuggled you aboard? Have to say, that makes more sense than Jack falling romantically in love with a strumpet and dragging her on…"

I narrowed my eyes in offence, but didn't dare do more for fear of irreparable physical damage to my being. Instead, I asked, "Where'd you get the idea we were married, anyway?"

She shrugged. "Gibbs's explanation for the intimacy shared between you and little Miss Sparrow out there," she emphasised the point with a jerk of her head to the door, where every now and again came an audible note of Pearl's favourite new song, "was that you were her ma. And now that you're here, and you ain't exactly swabbing the deck—" she paused. "Well, you're not swabbing the decks _yet,_" she briefly amended, and my eyes widened in alarm, "and you've not signed the Articles, and you're getting rather special treatment—"

"Even though Jack ignores me and barely looks at me and hasn't _once_ attempted to seduce me?" I interjected much too bitterly. I was never going to let _that_ go.

"Of course he has," Anamaria said automatically.

I widened my eyes. "What? No, he hasn't."

"Yes, he has."

"_No,_ he hasn't," I lightly asserted.

"Well, he has," Anamaria averred just as stubbornly.

"_When?_" I asked whilst wondering if I, sexually frustrated nymphomaniac in heat that I was, had somehow missed this attempt at getting me on my back. Or me on him, but let's not go there.

"That second night since you'd stolen away," she said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Wildly, I cast my mind deep into the depths of my memory. Coming up with absolutely nothing, I stared blankly at her.

"Oh, c'mon Sierra!" Anamaria exploded, and I jumped at the sudden increase in volume. "I bloody heard you with me own ears!"

I felt my face flush with embarrassment. Ah. _That_ night. Except Jack wasn't exactly who'd you call the seducer of that evening…

But that night… Well, I wasn't exactly seductive, was I? I'd practically thrown myself at him—_on_ him, even. He really didn't want me that night so long ago, but I'd kept persisting… I'd _forced_ myself upon him…

Suddenly, my mind clicked into gear: Jack wasn't paying me any attention, not because I'd become hideously unattractive in the past two weeks (I let out a silent prayer of thanks, mentally crossing myself), nor because I was unmistakably available and he'd missed the thrill of the chase (something I sincerely doubted to begin with, considering how we'd met in a brothel), but it was because… Because… Because I didn't give him a choice that night. He _had_ to sleep with me, and he didn't like being told what to do. And I _did_ force myself upon him…

That was it. My hands covered my face as I turned away from Anamaria's expectant gaze, feeling waves of mortification wash upon me.

Oh God. I'd raped Jack Sparrow.

That was embarrassing…

****

-x!x-

AN: I'm glad I've raised the rating, seeing as I'm now introducing rape into the plot… Can a woman actually rape a man? I mean, she can seduce him, sure, but rape…?

**Spikez-babe91:** Don't worry, you'll find out what Jack meant about her not worrying—well, I'll be lying if I said soon. The next ten chapters, max. I think…

**jennifer123:** Yea, I need to write more random funny chapters; I've got a couple of quasi-cute ones lined up, but randomly funny? Must work on those…

**Anne la Jordanie:** Alright, I shall now pilfer all ideas suggested. Uniforms in England vary in colour, but not in cut, unless you're attending an all-girls' Catholic school or something; blazers with padded shoulders, button-up shirt, tie, trousers/skirt. It would't be so bad if it wasn't for the blazer, or the fact that they're in a horrible shade of green… Sierra and Anamaria's relationship will be developing slowly, so there won't be many connections or actual bonding for quite a while… The rating's been raised, which can only be a good thing; as for this story being deleted, that's OK, I have it all backed up on what's meant to be a website; it's the reviews getting deleted that I'm worried about… You know, I hadn't meant for Sierra's whining about how no man was paying her attention to be interpreted that way; I was just trying to show that they had more important things to worry about, whereas she only has one thing on her mind…

**VagrantCandy:** Yes, it's always the interesting methods of bonding that's the fun ones… I must go think of more…

**Kitty-Kat26:** If I'm squirming in my seat, it's only because I have the urge to jump about happily at your review and get really odd looks from people. No, really thank you, it's nice to have a review that says WHY you like my story instead of just that you do. I like writing really complicated characters, even background ones that aren't actually that important to the plot because, you know, it's more realistic that way. And I always thought that Jack falling in love with a girl in five minutes was more than a little ridiculous, hence the lack of romantic interest. And it really annoys me to see all these innocent teenage OCs jumping back in time and being all sweet and virginal yet have a serious attitude problem, which is why my character is the way that she is. Let's have her depraved from the very beginning rather than an angel from heaven, because you can do so much more with those kind of characters… Feel free to point out any mistakes or anomalies, I won't get offended. Any ideas would also be much appreciated, and I promise I'll give credit. ;)

**TigerTiger02:** Yeah, that was a really good chapter in that it could be applied to real-life situations… Too manly to use aloe vera? I personally find it hard to believe that there are manly-men left in the world… Yep, you'll be glad to know that I'm keeping Jack ungentlemanly and Jack-like, only with an added fear of rape—nose and otherwise…


	24. Over And Under The Influence

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

**Chapter Twenty-Three:** Over And Under The Influence

"Don't say it," I hissed, and Pearl glared at me through her long black hair. I felt her attempting to nip at the hand firmly covering her mouth. "Promise you won't say it."

Her little teeth grazed viciously at my palm. Fearing for my fingers, I hurriedly withdrew my arm away.

"You're in love with Daddy!" she yelped. And then: "I don't like eating your hand," she announced with a wrinkle of her nose. "Your hand tastes funny."

"…Thanks for that," I told her, flopping onto the bed. "So, what have you been doing today?"

"Nothing much—ooh, but I _did_ redecorate Papa's cabin, though!" she proudly proclaimed, and I groaned.

With startling coincidence, I heard Jack's voice boom suddenly from the other side of the door: "_Pearl!_"

"Uh-oh," she sang, huddling towards me. "Hide me, Si-Si."

I groaned at the nickname. "It's your own fault," I scolded, before propping myself up on my elbows to tiredly greet the irate captain.

The door flew open to reveal a livid Jack Sparrow, his dark eyes searching out his target.

"How's it going? You seem to be a tad… petulant…"

He smiled briefly at me before returning his gaze to his daughter, who immediately sneezed in response. "I have a cold," she whined, pouting at him.

"You're in the Caribbean!" he sharply contradicted.

"Well, then, I—have the flu."

"Again, my first argument applies."

"I was under the influence!" she suddenly yelped.

"…I'm sorry?"

"Under the influence," she insisted. "I was—I was drunk, I was." She nodded very quickly, blue eyes widened innocently. "I _was._"

I bit my lip to hold back my laughter.

"Don't do that," Jack said, his gaze switching from Pearl to me.

I frowned. "Do what?" I asked, and he immediately turned his eyes back to his daughter, refusing to answer the innocent question. The Sparrows were a very eccentric family indeed.

"Under the influence, then?" he asked her, and she nodded fervently. "Are you still under the influence?"

"Oh, no no no no no, sir, the influence is beneath me now," she explained, nodding to accentuate her point.

"So you're over the influence, brat?"

"Oh, very much so, captain."

"It's below you, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you're certain about that, are you?"

"That I'm no longer under the influence?"

"That's my question, poppet."

"Oh, positive, sir. _Absolutely_ certain. I'm as sober as Christ was before he turned the water to wine, Papa."

He smiled. I sensed he was enjoying his little debate with her; he certainly looked calmer than when he'd first stormed in. Stepping forward, he sat on the bed, and leaned down so that his face was on the same level as Pearl's. "So I suppose that now you're over the influence you are therefore fully capable of correcting the damage done whilst you were under it, is that right?"

Pearl sighed in exasperation. "Oh, Papa, you overestimate my sobriety and underestimate my alcoholism," she explained sweetly to him.

"It really disturbs me," I cut in as Jack, smiling ever so slightly, was about to reply, "that an eight-year-old child has a better understanding of the English language than I do."

"I can't help that I'm so witty," she complained, pouting yet again. I smiled at her adorable expression, raising my hand to ruffle her hair, and she shook her head, leaning into my hand the way an affectionate cat might lean into the hand of its master.

"Pearl," Jack said suddenly, "you are forbidden to leave my cabin until you've restored the room to its previous splendour, understood?"

"Okay!" she agreed enthusiastically.

"And I've taken the liberty of relocating all of the books to a hereby undisclosed location."

"But—" she protested. "Oh, Papa, _where?_"

He smiled aggravatingly at her. "I'm sorry, sweetheart; the location's undisclosed."

"But—"

"Undisclosed location," he interrupted. He may as well have written down where his precious books were on a piece of paper and waved it tauntingly above her head, just out of her reach. I could actually see him doing that, worryingly enough.

She smiled. "Well, at least I'll still have my Daddy," she beamed optimistically.

The smile she'd next received was nothing short of teasing. "Ah, but you won't, you see," he enlightened her.

"But—but it's _your_ cabin!"

"Aye, but I won't be sleeping in it until you're finished with it, sweetheart," he told her.

She pouted. "Will I still have my Sierra with me, then?" she asked.

"No."

I sat up, looking wildly at him. "Why not?"

"Because," Jack explained patiently to the both of us, "I need to make certain that my girl does what she's told, rather than blackmailing another through a mixture of pouting lips and fluttering eyelashes."

I ducked my head, flushing. So I'm guessing he knew how Pearl had coaxed me aboard, then.

"So—So where would Sierra go, then?" Pearl questioned timidly.

"She'll be staying here, of course."

"With you, Papa?"

Jack noticeably refused to answer.

"You're in love!" she suddenly yelled, clapping her hands in delight.

He winced. "Pearl, don't sing that song," he warned, looking pleadingly into her eyes.

But it was too late: "You love Sierra! You love Sierra! You lo—"

He'd all but threw himself upon the singing child, slamming a hand tightly over her mouth and turning to face me. "Please, feel free to ignore this latest incarnation of Satan," he told me calmly. "She's under the influence, if you catch my drift."

As he spoke, the latest incarnation of Satan was able to twist herself out of her father's—whom I naturally presumed was an earlier incarnation of Satan, as these sort of things tended to run in the family—grip.

"You're in love with—"

"D'you think you could keep her shut up for one moment?" he asked loudly in an attempt to drown out Pearl's rambunctious little number. "I'll be right back, I swear."

"Sure," I said, standing and walking calmly to the desk.

Pure gratitude flooded his features, and then he was out of the room in a flash.

"You love Papa! You love Papa!"

Pearl's lyrics may have changed, but the tune remained suspiciously similar. Sighing, I picked up the linen face towel, and waved it threateningly in front of her face.

"Pearl, you know what happens when you sing that song," I warned.

"You're in love with Daddy! You're in love with Daddy! You're in—mmph!"

Her verse was rudely interrupted by a towel-turned-gag. She was able to free her lips away from her linen prison to pout and babyishly say, "I no like you no more. You _mean,_" before the towel was back and I was tickling her ribs. A fatal combination, I'm sure you'll agree.

Jack returned as promised, holding a bottle of rum. I examined the alcohol suspiciously.

"You're going to challenge your daughter to a drinking contest?" I asked. "That's a little… questionable, isn't it?"

"Hey, she won last time," he justified.

"It's true," Pearl confirmed, nodding her head solemnly. Her face turned hopeful, her little white hands reaching out to the forbidden elixir.

"It's not for you," he said, and swung open the door further to reveal a faintly terrified Gibbs.

I was struck dumb as the full extent of Jack's organisation skills were revealed to me. "'Whilst the cat's away, the mice will play,' is that it?" I murmured to him quietly as Pearl attacked the older man. "Or in this case, copulate?"

He looked at me from the corner of his eyes. "Just because I'm sleeping with you doesn't mean I'm sleeping with you," he explained rather confusingly.

I bit my lip to stop from smirking victoriously: I knew I'd break him, sooner or later…

Except I, um, didn't. He was as much of a prude then as he had been during the entirety of my stay on his ship. Would you like to know what he _did_ do that evening as opposed to engaging in mind-blowing, earth-shatteringly intense pleasure with me?

He just laid in bed and read. _Read._ What sort of twisted, novel-depriving existence had he led which resulted in him turning down a blowjob to _read?_

Incensed, I turned my back to him, lying on my side, head propped in one hand whilst the fingers of the other tapped impatiently on the mattress, scowling at the bare wall in front of me. The tree that it was carved from had probably gotten laid more times than I currently was.

"I hate you," I spat from beside him.

"That's nice, dear," he hummed.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Just a random little filler I thought up, I really don't have a clue where it came from; this is what happens when I have writer's block but update anyway… Hope it's kinda amusing, though…

**VagrantCandy:** Jack won't consider it as rape? We'll see…

**Spikez-babe91:** Ah, but did he though? Did he really? Ah, one of life's greatest mysteries… Was this update fast enough? I don't have as much time now as I did in the summer, so I apologise in advance for future slow, yearly updates.

**TigerTiger02:** It depends if you look at rape from the physical point of view or emotional/mentally; I mean, a guy's body can react without his mental/emotional consent. On the other hand, he needs to be somewhat attracted to the woman in question, and that's more of a mental thing, so… I can't work it out. I've discussed it several times in depth with friends and I'm still not certain what to think on the matter. But I know that arousal is more mental than it is physical, so it can't be completely forced, can it? …Moving on…

**Kitty-Kat26:** I'm so happy, I actually inspired someone! On the other hand, I'm also faintly worried for your mental health. Whatever. There's nothing wrong with writing Mary-Sues; I have a badly-written stereotypical one on my profile still, but as it was my first fic, I'm kinda reluctant to delete it. Pathetic, isn't it? Just do what I do: turn them into drag queens (long story). And, technically speaking, Sierra would be classed by many as one, as can Pearl, but don't ask me how. I agree with you there; typical blonde sex-goddesses are annoying, but so are the ones where they have all of their sad woes thrust straight out into the open. Usually, the two go together. It really depends on what your definition of an MS is; personally, I just ignore the Mary-Sue label and divide characters into original and unoriginal. Feel free to steal anything you see from me; I don't care, as long as I get credit. ;) But I'm sure you'll come up with something.

**Anne la Jordanie:** If a woman is to rape a man, isn't he meant to be, um, a little horny? And isn't that a mental thing? You see, we're FORCED to buy blazers, with our own money. That's why I'm looking forward to ripping mine apart, after the exams have come and gone, and then I'll be free! Sorry. Sierra and Anamaria have really odd ways of bonding, don't they? Aloe vera, racism, nose-rape… It's a mad, mad pirate ship we're on. A mediator and wake-up call would be useful, but if they get one or the other, then that that will make for less entertaining reading, won't it? Btw, when you say that Jack's not the best man to get involved with, is it because of way I've written him? Because I'm just trying to stay true to the movie, and he will eventually redeem himself. I think. He might not. I haven't decided yet…


	25. Sermons Of An Alcoholic Priest

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AN: I had writer's block when I started writing this chapter: Now, one week later, I have ten pages worth of text. Sorry folks, but this is going to be long, confusing, and complicated, with a notable lack of answers and lucidity. You've been warned.

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Twenty-Four: Sermons Of An Alcoholic Priest

"I want Pearl back," I told Jack sullenly the next evening as I dragged a brush through my hair.

"Yes, and I'd like to have my room back in some form of decency, but we don't always get what we want out of life now, do we, love?" Jack was sitting at the desk in Pearl's room, poring over a highly complex and overly-labelled map of a place I didn't recognise.

Having finished untangling my hair, I began to plait it, twisting my body to look at him from over my shoulder. "Exactly what did she _do,_ anyway?"

Jack's only response was to shrug. "Well, to put it mildly, she turned over the mattress, tipped out the drawers, scattered a few books and papers here and there, and generally buggered the whole place up." I watched him pick up a quill and dip it into a lidless pot of ebony ink before he slowly began to trace a line on the map from one unfamiliar point to another. "I've a sneaking suspicion she was looking for something," he said lightly.

"I think she just wanted her father's attention," I spoke quietly.

The quill's continuous scratching screeched to a halt. He turned around to look at me. "I'm sorry if it appears rude to ask, love, but what, exactly, are you implying?"

I took a deep breath, wondering if voicing my opinion was the best move to make, considering how I was on a relentless mission to seduce him. "I think she just wanted you to notice her—"

"I _do_ notice her!" he interrupted. "It's a little hard not to!"

"Exactly!" I exclaimed. "You don't make a conscious effort to spend time with her, it just… kinda happens…"

He looked as though he would very much have liked to correct me, but thought better of it. Instead, he turned back to his map. "Sierra, if you don't mind my asking, but can you please enlighten me as to how you've come to the conclusion that you're such an expert on the complex art of child-rearing?"

I turned away, staring at my lap and fiddling with my brush. "No reason, really," I murmured softly to him.

"Yes, there is," he said. I heard the chair slide across the floorboards, and looked up to see him walking towards the bed. He sat on the mattress, his eyes studying my features closely. I immediately turned away; I hated the way that he seemed able to read me as easily as his maps.

"Why have you taken such an interest in my relationship with Pearl, love?"

I closed my eyes, sighing quietly. What could I say? That his conduct towards Pearl, whilst beyond a shadow of doubt caring and concerned, seemed impersonal and forced, more that he was acting out of a sense of duty than he was personal affection? That in that way, he was constantly reminding me of my own lonely loveless upbringing at the hands of my parents, which only succeeded in making me feel inadequate and depressed?

"I don't know anything about kids, Jack, but that doesn't automatically mean I've no opinion on how and how not to raise them," I replied shortly.

I knew that Jack didn't believe a word I had said; however, as, technically speaking, my words were not a lie, he couldn't openly challenge me upon the matter. So he let the subject drop.

I kept my eyes on my fidgeting hands as I listened to his feet retracing the short path from the bed to Pearl's desk, only to once again return to the mattress. His fingers grazed the back of my neck as he finished the braid I had started; I felt the cool smoothness of one of Pearl's silk ribbons fluttering against my skin, and suppressed the urge to lean back into him as his warm palm traced my shoulder blades. His hand flitted across my right shoulder, down my arm, and he raised my hand, kissing my fingers in a gentlemanly manner that I wouldn't have expected of him. Then he released my fingers, and wordlessly pulled away, returning to his map.

Now, I'd long ago figured out that Jack was an unpredictable and complicated man, but this latest development threw me into more confusion. He'll style my hair and kiss my hand and caress me gently without my saying a single word, but he wouldn't throw me on my back and have his way with me? He was treating me very genteelly, almost affectionately, yet he did not ask for, nor accepted, any sexual favours? I mean, that in itself was strange and unnatural: The only men who had treated me as such before only did it because they were hoping to get lucky and had no idea that I was a sure thing.

After staring at his back for a few moments, my plait now secured with one of Pearl's ribbons, I laid down on the mattress, turning away from him, cuddling a pillow and wondering why it was taking Pearl so damnably long to neaten up Jack's cabin. Twenty-four hours was enough, wasn't it?

* * *

"Here you go," Anamaria said cheerfully the next morning, handing me a tightly wrapped cloth bundle. "Just like you asked. Found them in the hold, along with some soap and brooms."

"Thank you _so_ much," I gushed, cradling the gift of razors and rubbing it against my cheek affectionately. It had suddenly dawned on me earlier this morning why Jack was so reluctant to bed me: it was all to do with my legs. Why had I not realised it before? I hadn't shaved since I'd been at the Pint and Garter, and although I was lucky in that the regrowth wasn't actually noticeable, that _had_ to be the only reason why Jack wasn't as interested in me as he should have been. It couldn't possibly have anything to do with him not being in the mood: he _was_ a guy, after all…

"Don't do that!" Anamaria warned me sharply, snatching it back again. "They're mighty sharp, you know. Wouldn't want any scars now, would you?"

I glared at her, my arms folded. "Ana, look, I'm a big girl, all right? And I've used them before, I know how to handle them—"

"Oh, I'm sorry, I had no idea you wanted them so that you can cut your face open."

"Don't talk to me like that; sarcasm is _my_ speciality, alright?"

"Wha—? You don't _own_ sarcasm."

"Well, I did have it copyrighted, so you can just—"

Anamaria held up a hand to silence me, brow furrowed as she concentrated on something in the distance. "Sparrow's coming," she said, faintly panicked. "Here—" and she threw a broom at me. "Quick, start sweeping—"

I lowered my eyes to the ground, frowning in mock-concentration, whilst Anamaria busied herself with rearranging various pots and pans. I saw her throw the cloth bundle at the corner near the door's hinges not a moment too soon; Jack entered three seconds later.

"Morning, ladies," he said a little too pleasantly, his eyes travelling from me to Anamaria.

"You want something, don't you?" Anamaria immediately leapt in; she wasn't one for subtlety, I'd found out.

"As a matter of fact…" He was smiling, a little too falsely, I thought. I looked towards Anamaria uncertainly, and she shook her head, indicating her confusion.

"I'm assuming the both of you can recall a certain… unpleasant incident of two days ago involving our cook, Jacob Doyle?"

Anamaria looked sharply at me. "I can't think of anything, can you, Sierra?" Her expression strongly suggested that I shouldn't.

"Nope, nothing," I agreed. "Except that… that he's not cooking here anymore…"

"Oh, that can easily be explained," Jack divulged. "You see, darling, Jacob's been only half-conscious for the past forty-eight hours; he's badly bruised, with a dislocated shoulder…"

My eyes lifted from the floorboards in shock: I had no idea that Anamaria was so powerful…

"How is he?" I asked before I could stop myself: don't confuse my curiosity with compassion, I thought that Doyle had fully deserved his beating at Ana's hands—and in some cases, feet—I simply just wanted to know what Anamaria was capable of. Actually, I wanted to see how badly the racist git was suffering. I suppose I'm sadistic that way.

"Unable to lift a pan for the next week or so," Jack said. "Lazy bugger, but Marty's cooking's better, so I s'pose that could be counted as a blessing…" He looked directly at me. "Sierra, I don't suppose you'll be particularly fond of the idea of attending to him?"

"No," I replied with a glance at Anamaria.

"Well that's a damned shame, seeing as he's now your latest priority."

"_What!_" Ana's incredulous yelp voiced my stunned thought.

"It's quite simple, Anamaria," Jack explained quite patronisingly. "All Sierra need do is visit him on a regular basis, bring him food, check his injuries, report to Cotton—do you know who Mr Cotton is, Sierra?"

I shook my head.

"The mute with the nautically foul-mouthed parrot," Anamaria explained briefly before returning her gaze back to Jack. "Jack, you can't make 'er do that. Sir," she added as an afterthought.

"Well, he did ask for her specifically—"

"But Captain, he don't deserve that."

"I'll decide what luxuries my crew do and don't deserve, thank you, Anamaria," Jack said to her in a low tone.

"With all due respect, Captain," Anamaria tried for one final time, her pretty brown eyes looking pleadingly up at him, "but I don't think sending Sierra to tend to his wounds would be the best idea. 'Specially seeing how he, you know, asked specifically for her an' the like."

"And may I ask what is the reason for this conclusion?"

Narrowing her eyes, she stepped closer to him, raising her knee ever so slightly, and he immediately jumped back. Ah, so it appeared that the great Captain Jack Sparrow feared for his testicles after all, but I couldn't for my life figure out why; it wasn't as if his genitals were being put to any use…

"How long have we been at sea, sir?"

"Just over three weeks, I assume," he replied nonchalantly, examining a fraying cuff of his coat.

"And would you say that the rest of the crew are getting a little… restless?" she stressed the word, turning to look meaningfully at me.

"Trust me, the men aren't the only ones getting restless around here," I scowled with a rather nasty look at Jack, who furrowed his brow.

"What did _I_ do?" he asked wildly.

"It's more a case of what you _didn't_ do," I stressed, crossing my arms and pouting.

A smirk stole over his face; his eyes looked past me, a distant expression on his features. "Oh, yes, sorry, I forgot," he vaguely waved away.

I exploded. "You _forgot!_" And then, in an attempt at a calmer tone that failed miserably, "You… forgot?"

"These things happen—"

"_Not,_" I stressed, also advancing upon him and standing at Anamaria's side, "to me."

By now, poor Jack, poor, terrorised Captain Jack Sparrow, was shrinking towards the door, fearful eyes darting from one incensed female to the other. Ana and I had him trapped between us and the door, and we were more than willing to have our way with him.

No, not like that.

"You can't send Sierra to him, Sparrow," Anamaria told him calmly but coldly. "She's a pretty girl, and we both know he's more than willing rape pretty girls…"

My stomach plummeted: I snapped my head to look at her.

"I suppose you do have a fair point, Anamaria," Jack agreed. "What was her name again? Dorothy?"

"Doro_thea._"

There was a sudden knock at the door: "Captain, sir? Mr Gibbs would like a word at the helm, if you please."

"Bless you, unknown sailor!" he exclaimed, grabbing the handle. "So sorry, girls, love to stay and chat, but—" And he darted out of the door.

Anamaria sighed in exasperation, hands on her hips. "Why are men such cowards?" she complained. "This is why I'm never interested in them: they can't actually do anything worthwhile. You know, Sierra, sometimes I feel as though they were only put upon God's green earth so that humanity can breed and multiply. I honestly believe that us women of the world should band together one of these days and just—"

"Yep, I completely agree with everything you're saying," I interrupted, not in the mood to hear her rant. "They are totally useless, but fun to have in the sack—"

"But—isn't that a little degrading for women?"

"Oh, it is," I agreed, also moving towards the door. "But you see, Ana, that's what makes it so much fun; now, if you'll excuse me—" And I skidded into the hall, lifting my skirts the better to chase after Jack. When he was in range, I literally threw myself at him, so as to catch his attention (that's it, I swear). He fell back into the wall with a strangled yelp, looking down at me with frightened, widened eyes.

"So, let me get this straight," I reasoned, "You _knowingly_ recruited a rapist? And now you want _me_ to play nurse to him?"

"Well, I didn't really know anything about my crew until _after_ they'd all signed the Articles," he defended.

I snorted. "That's responsible," I commented.

"Thank you, I always thought so. Best career decision I'd ever made." And he tried to move around me, but I immediately countered by slapping my hands onto the smooth wooden wall on either side of him, effectively leaving him trapped. I watched Jack's throat, mesmerised, as he swallowed nervously.

"This was never about you playing nursemaid to Doyle, was it?" he asked hesitantly of me.

I shook my head, smirking mischievously. I saw panic flash vividly across his features; he very slowly raised his index finger. "If I might be so bold as to offer my personal opinion on the matter, which I believe I am fully entitled to—"

I moved further towards him, and he very amusingly attempted to move back, which, seeing how he was already pinned to the wall, soon proved to be a little unachievable.

"Sierra," he growled, "don't make me…" He was momentarily silenced when I craned my neck and playfully nipped at his earlobe.

"'Don't'…?" I whispered huskily into his ear.

Jack shook his head, trying to pull himself firmly back into reality from… well, wherever his treacherous mind had sent him to. "Huh?"

"I believe you were about to threaten me," I explained, letting my body fall onto his and smirking mischievously up at him.

I was surprised to hear Jack whimper. "Please don't hurt me," he implored desperately.

Shocked, I drew away, able to fully take him in at a distance. Jack was hunched up against the wall in a worryingly foetal position, eyes screwed up as though in pain, hands balled into fists, shoulders shaking.

My hands flew to my mouth as realisation suddenly dawned. I mean, yes, the thought that I had raped the man had occurred before, but I hadn't seriously considered the possibility…

"Jack, are you alright?" I asked timidly.

He nodded unconvincingly, noticeably looking anywhere but at me.

"Are you… sure?" He shook his head vehemently when I'd started moving towards him, before nodding again. It was very confusing to deduce the actual answer to my question. Stepping back, I worried my lower lip as I studied him: if I _had_ raped him, as it now appeared that I had in fact, committed such a crime, and this was his reaction to it, then how was I going to lure him back into bed?

Would I be cursed to spend the rest of my days in a infinite state of sexual frustration? No, I couldn't allow this to happen: it was a criminal offence, against all of the laws of nature.

"Jack, please stop doing this, I'm getting a little bit worried here…" Worried about my impending celibacy and how best to prevent such an event from occurring, that is. I know, I know, my concern should be for Jack alone, Jack and his mental and emotional well-being, but frankly, I didn't quite like the idea of turning into a female eunuch.

"Yes, I'm fine," he said, his voice noticeably strained. "No, don't come any closer!" he said quickly as I'd started forwards yet again, but I continued anyway. He flinched as I reached out for his face, and reluctantly looked down into my eyes.

"Jack," I whispered quietly, so as not to alarm him, "are you sure you're fine?"

"I am," he reassured me. "Of course I am. I'm just a little…" One of his hands gestured hopelessly, as though he would somehow be able to grab the word he was searching for from out of thin air.

"Jack, it wasn't… I didn't…" I inhaled, gathering my thoughts together. "It's not… _me,_ is it?"

He looked away, head bowed in humiliation. "You could say that," he murmured, as though ashamed.

"Was it… something that I did?" I enquired, sounding patronising to my own ears.

"Well, I don't want to make you feel…" He stopped yet again, sighing. "Yes, I suppose it was, in a way."

Very gently, I placed one hand on his shoulder, the other on his chest, and slowly raised myself on my toes. His eyes looked into mine as my head moved closer, and then he smiled, he was smiling shyly, and he looked so sweet and absolutely adorable, allowing his eyes to gradually flutter close—

"Jack! _NOOOOO!_"

Startled, I drew away; out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jack's head snap up, eyes widened, mouth opened; in short, looking like a startled deer. He could be extremely adorable in that way too. Good Lord, what was wrong with me? Was I starting to think of him as… more than just a sex toy? I could feel my heart quicken with terror: how could I allow myself to consider a man as something more than that? It was just… immoral…

But returning to the present, and the origin of the two-word warning:

Hurdling towards us was the wigged man I had seen whining about his lacking knowledge of gossip in the galley only two, three days ago: his hands were outstretched, ready to grab me—

I felt Jack's hands clutch at my upper arms, pulling me into his protective embrace, and we both watched as the wigged man tumbled painfully to the floorboards. He pushed himself up, shaking his head, wig lopsided and revealing hair so dreadfully cut a child must have attacked it with scissors in his sleep. Now on his knees, he shuffled towards us, hands clasped in prayer.

"_Resist the temptation,_" he uttered ominously.

"Oh, Father, _please!_" Jack groaned, a note of exasperation in his voice.

My head snapped back to Jack in shock: _Father?_

"Humanity's banishment from paradise was caused by a mere bite of the forbidden fruit," the man voiced piously. He snarled at me, baring his yellowing teeth, and I drew closer to Jack, my fingers fisting his shirt. "Back, abominable succubus! Be gone! Return to the fiery pits of eternal torment from whence you came—"

"Father Dickinson," Jack explained calmly to me as the elderly man continued to ramble, "had been banned from practising and preaching the word of God when an altar boy caught him sneaking a few sips at the Communion wine, a few years back." He then turned his gaze back to the ex-priest currently condemning me to be naught more than a 'vile whore of Satan.' "Father Dickinson," he said loudly, "have you been sneaking a few drinks from the rum supply again?"

The cleric's sermon effectively drew to a sudden halt; his eye noticeably gave an involuntary twitch. "No…"

Jack raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"My child," he said, looking at Jack, "allow me to warn you against the wily enchantments of this witch: you know not with wh—"

"I'll have you know, Father Dickinson," Jack defended, a hand slamming over my opening mouth, "that _Mademoiselle—Miss_—" he added quickly at my look "de Victoire was raised in the sacred convent of St Madeleine, in the small little backwater of _L'Anse Charpantier._ I hardly think you can call a _nun_ a whore of Satan."

"You'll be surprised," Father Dickinson insisted with commendable conviction. "St Madeleine, did you say?" He looked suspiciously at me. "_Mademoiselle,_ are you, by any chance, a _Catholic?_" He stressed the word 'Catholic' with a surprising amount of zeal, letting the last 'c' trail off in a hiss.

I blinked, looking up at Jack for guidance. His eyes were widened, and he seemed as though he were attempting to move his head. I turned back to the drunken preacher. "Um… yes?" I tentatively confessed.

Father Dickinson let loose with half a dozen curses which I was certain were more than a little blasphemous. Composing himself, he looked at me once more, watery eyes burning with religious fervour. "Are you—_French?_" he interrogated, looming threateningly towards me, a sandy eyebrow madly raised.

"…No," I replied demurely. Jack gave me a comforting pat on the shoulder.

"She lies!" Dickinson roared. "Her name—is French! Her voice—is French! Her hair—is bad!"

Jack and I both gave each other a bemused glance.

"Don't worry about it: your hair is _fine,_" he reassured me as Father Dickinson began to hyperventilate. "He doesn't know half of what he's saying, anyway: as a matter of fact, he classed my own hair as 'abominable' just last night…"

I raked my gaze across his own untidy mane. "He _does_ have a point though," I observed.

Jack glared sharply at me, a hand going to his belt, and a very small part of me was hoping he was about to take it off.

…Imagine my disappointment when he held up a shining silver shilling instead. Wordlessly, he held the coin towards the man, who recoiled as though burned.

"Heavens above!" he whispered. "The silver of the treacherous Judas himself!"

Did I even want to know?

"That's right, Father Dickinson," Jack confirmed, waving the coin beneath the shrinking priest's nose. "'Twas a relic I got on a pilgrimage to the Holy City as a lad."

Father Dickinson was looking at the coin in awe, head following Jack's hand like a snake danced to the music of its charmer. With the smallest grin, he tossed the coin down the hallway. I heard it clatter onto the floorboards, and the Father let out a howl, immediately scrambling across the floor for it.

"I think it's rolled down the stairs," Jack commented calmly when Dickinson, after several minutes of fruitless groping, sat back on his haunches with trembling lips. The ex-cleric immediately stumbled to his feet, bounding down the stairs.

"…Okay," I swallowed as Jack turned back to grin at me. "Was that an alcoholic priest that just threatened to throw me into the fiery flames of hell?"

"I'm afraid so," Jack confirmed. "But I wouldn't give it too much thought—"

He was rudely cut off as my hand reached up to roughly grab at his skull, forcing his head down towards mine, and I registered shock and unmistakable terror in his wide brown eyes before my own closed and I gave him a very violent kiss. I felt his hands at my waist, but not because he wished to pull me closer to him: if anything, he was attempting to push me _away…_

I frowned at this rather unexpected—and, let's admit it, _insulting_—reaction, and countered it by pushing myself closer. He let out a muffled yelp as the unexpected weight of my body fell upon him, pushing him down onto the floor with a very painful-sounding thud, but I didn't care—it didn't count as rape if you forced a _kiss_ upon a man, did it?

He whimpered again, and I froze. Jack's body was lying disturbingly still beneath me, and I felt his shoulders quivering ever so slightly.

I immediately pulled away from his lips, rolling off of his resisting body, and sat crouched beside him. "Jack?"

My fingers reached out to stroke his hair.

His trembling stopped, and he opened his eyes, looking into my own. He propped himself up onto his elbows, rubbing his head and shaking it from side to side, grinning when he caught my anxious expression. His smile softened as he looked at me, and he turned his head into my palm, kissing the skin as a way of thanking me for not going further, his own hand reaching out to flit across my—

"That is, without a doubt, the most beautifully sculpted nose I have ever seen," was his only comment, and my shoulders sagged in relief: I hadn't broken him! I chuckled quietly, wriggling the single feature of my face that had caused such fascination.

Our half-intimate moment was rudely interrupted:

"Jack, ye lazy, frock-wearing whoreson! Get your arse up 'ere 'fore my foot gets up yours!"

I furrowed my brow, tilting my head questioningly as Jack sighed in exasperation, standing and pulling me up. "Was that _Gibbs?_"

"Yes, I believe it was. And I've the faintest suspicion he's somewhat upset about something." He playfully brushed his finger across my nose one last time before turning and moving towards the stairs in his newly-sobered way.

"Jack?" I asked before I could stop myself. He halted, half-turning, the faintest trace of annoyance in his eyes. "Can the crew… talk to you like that?" I continued, looking at him closely.

He shrugged. "It's not exactly against the Code," he replied enigmatically before turning me away, apparently leaving me to ponder on this "code" of his, which I had not yet heard of.

Of course, I was pondering on something else entirely.

"_Why?_" I raged as soon as I'd slammed the door shut into the kitchen Anamaria was occupying. She started, rounding around on me, knife in one hand, half-sliced carrot in the other.

"Ana," I repeated desperately, "why can't I get _laid? No one_ on this ship is interested in my body _at all!_"

Judging from her rather incredulous expression, Anamaria would have considered it more as an actual blessing rather than the maddening curse that it in reality was. "Um… Is that a bad thing?"

"It's _terrible!_" I affirmed, grabbing a sopping rag and viciously beating a chipped plate with it. "Ana, _nobody_ thinks I'm attractive!" And then it dawned on me: was I not pretty in times gone by? Was I only considered beautiful in the twenty-first century?

Anamaria, perhaps fearing that I'll cry, was determined to raise my self-esteem. "They _do_ find you attractive, Sierra, don't you fear," she said, and I could hear her very politely straining to hide her irritation at my desperate and rather needy ways.

"But then why won't they—"

Anamaria harshly slapped me into silence. She did that quite a lot, slapping people. "Do you _really_ want to be passed around from one man to another like a—like a piece of meat?"

Rubbing my cheek, I glared at her from beneath my lashes. I was more than ready to slap her right back for slapping me, but then she'll probably hit me right back for striking her, and then I'll get incensed and hit her, and then before I knew it we'll be brawling, and seeing how she was fully capable of dislocating a rather large man's arm socket and I had never been in a fight, cat or otherwise, in my life, I somehow doubted that the end result would bode well for my health.

So instead I asked: "Passed around like a piece of meat? The only man I want to ra—seduce is the captain."

Anamaria looked absolutely disgusted: clearly, she had never considered Jack in _that_ way. Idly, I found myself wondering if she was a virgin or Amazon or priestess of some obscure underground cult that she'd forgot to mention…

"Didn't he tell you?"

I looked at her. "Tell me what?"

"Why he's not…" She made a rather obscure gesture with her hands, as though she was attempting to swat a fly, clearly unwilling to say it, but I knew what she meant.

"No, but I'm assuming it was because he had a medical reason, like… he's dying, or has a weak heart, or had been castrated…"

Anamaria looked very tempted to try this last suggestion out, but hid her interest well. "No, Sierra, he's still all there (unfortunately). An' I'll say this, if Sparrow's dying or has a weak 'eart, then by God he's in the wrong line of work…"

I had to agree with her on this: the wayward rats occasionally scampering across the floorboards had given about three heart attacks in the past week or so alone. "So why is he being all… eunuch-like?"

Anamaria burst out laughing at my phrasing. "Eunuch-like? I'll have to tell tha' to—never mind," she said at my raised eyebrow. Having relatively curbed her malicious mirth, she looked me up and down. "Jack ain't laying a hand on you, simply 'cause he _can't,_" she stressed.

I stared at her in horror. "You _did_ castrate him!"

"I didn't! I swear! Planning to, perhaps, but that's currently a mere threat—"

"_Currently,_" I accused.

"Aye—he promised me a ship, but that's a very long story involving a boat and a couple o' fruit bats…"

I blinked in confusion, about to ask her to elaborate, when the door suddenly burst open to reveal a tired, dishevelled Pearl with widened eyes. She squealed when she saw me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me out of the galley.

"You _have_ to get up on deck!" she shrieked at Anamaria, who let her knife fall with a clatter onto the table. A flash of understanding seemed to pass between the two women, an awareness of which I was entirely ignorant.

"Whose colours are they flying?" she asked.

"French, I think," Pearl said, still pulling me behind her. "Navy, not merchant. Papa's getting very angry because Marty's misplaced Holland's flag, so the Roger's been rigged up."

Anamaria sighed, more in exasperation than anything else. "Sparrow, you impatient bugger…" she groaned. Her hand went to her belt, and she unhooked a ring of keys, tossing then to me. "Sierra," she commanded of me when I glanced at her in uncertainty, "you go take the child, and lock both o' yourselves in the brig, alrigh'?"

I looked at her in confusion. "Why?"

"So that you give off the misleadin' impression of being prisoners!" she snarled.

I still didn't comprehend her instructions, searching her brown eyes as Pearl continued to tug worriedly on my arm.

"_Now!_" Ana snapped, and I picked up my skirts and ran.

-x!x-

AN: It's nice to return to my first love, the cliffhanger… Apologies for the slow update and lower quality, but hey, at least I wrote more, right?

Kitty-Kat26: Sanity, as far as I can tell, is overrated. And boring. But no matter. If you want me to help out with your plotline and fics, feel free to email me whenever: I won't ever be too busy. My email's on my profile page, and we'll see what we can up with it; hopefully it won't be anything too crazy… Pearl reminds you of your brother? I'm impressed, although actually, I had very losely based Pearl on a five-year-old girl I happen to be related to: she reads immigration law books, Shakespeare, and English-Thai dictionaries. I'm getting quite worried about her, but hey, at least she can't understand it… I think…

VagrantCandy: Why would you wish to question my perceptions and characterisations in the first place, hmm? They're creations of genius, I tell you! GENIUS! …Or madness. We'll have to wait for my tests to come back from the hospitals…

TigerTiger02: I can relate to your views; I, also, am anatomically inadequate to receive such favours… And returning to the textbook conclusion just takes us back to the beginning of the argument, doesn't it? Maybe we should drop it and let other, highly-specialised people decide for us instead… Yep, Pearl is great; I don't think there are that many characters like her in Jack Sparrow's children fics, are there? I haven't read them, but I'm just assuming…

Spikez-babe91: Thanks, I love that line too ;)

love2rite: Exactly! I'm sure more women go after Jack than he does them, anyway…

Anne la Jordanie: It's alright, so long as you DO review. That's really all that matters to me, I'm quite shallow like that; two hours just to get to the last chapter? Considering how short it was, I'd say there's something mortally wrong with your connection, but if it helps, kicking, hitting, and general unnecessary violence has worked for me in the past… Y'know, I never thought of it like that, wanting to have sex but not agreeing to it is TECHNICALLY non-consensual, I guess… But yeah, what happened wasn't rape; everything else afterwards, however, was attempted rape… A mediator would be amusing, but WHO would be qualified enough to do such a thing? That's the question… And I guess movie-Jack isn't the best to get involved with, on that account, but seeing how the movie only dealt with Will/Elizabeth's romantic relationship and no one else's, everything is artistic license, right? And God knows how I've been exploiting that. Have patience, dear reader: why Jack is turning Sierra down would all be revealed in due time, but until then, feel free to speculate…


	26. Mademoiselle d’Évignon? Moi?

﻿ 

How My Perfect Life Was Inverted

Chapter Twenty-Five: Mademoiselle d'Évignon? Moi?

It turned out that the main reason Anamaria had sent Pearl and I to the brig was partly to protect us from whatever enemies were able to steal below decks, and partly to release two harshly-punished crewmen, whose names I gathered were respectively Connelly and Donovan. Pearl told me in hurried whispers that both were gunners.

"It's not _that_ key, it's the other one, ye daft harlot!" one of the men hissed at me in an Irish accent as I clumsily fumbled the ring of keys in the half-darkness of the brig.

"Leave the poor wench alone," the other snapped in an equally Irish voice with what sounded like a smack to the other's head.

"They're always bickering," Pearl murmured from somewhere near my hip.

"Ain't there a candle or something in here?"

"I don't know!" I answered, sounding hysterical to my own ears.

There was a muffled boom, followed by a distant splash. Apparently, the other ship was too far from the _Pearl_ to pose much of a threat yet.

"Pearl?" I asked as I heard her little feet patter away from me as she expertly manoeuvred herself in the pitch-blackness. Blindly, I turned, wondering where she could have gone—the brig was dark as a mine without any illumination.

"Gimme the keys, love," one of the 'prisoners'—Connelly or Donovan, I've yet to distinguish their voices—said exasperatedly.

I immediately rammed my hand between two of the bars, only to be greeted with a muffled curse as my fist accidentally rammed into muscled flesh. "Sorry!" I apologised as the keys were wrenched from my hand. I stepped back, whirling around desperately as though the small space would suddenly light up. "Pearl?"

The clang of metal told me that the door to their cell had been successfully unlocked. One of the Irishmen accidentally trod on my toe, eliciting a shriek from my lips.

"A thousand sorry's!" the culprit apologised profusely before falling into me as the other pirate pushed out from behind him. I landed with a yelp on the hard wooden floor, the pirate falling heavily onto me with a grunt of pain.

"Are you alrigh', Miss?" he asked me worriedly.

"No, your elbow's digging into my ribs—ow!" as he shifted and dug the joint further into my torso.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"Get off of 'er, Donovan, you can swive the whore later!" And I felt his body being yanked off of mine with unquestionable relief, also sitting up.

"OW!" I exclaimed as I felt the warm hand of the sailor slam into my face.

"I'm just trying to help you up!" he desperately defended. Weakly, I groped for his hand, allowing him to pull me up. I felt the palm of the other supporting my shoulder as the ship suddenly lurched to the side, preventing me from falling. When he was certain that my footing was completely steady, he released me, and I heard his footsteps ascending the stairs.

Desperately, I twisted my head, squinting my eyes in the semi-darkness. It can't have been later than nine, ten in the morning; so why was it all so dark?

"Pearl?" I called out, attempting to find a dim silhouette of the eight-year-old girl. "Pearl?"

Nothing; only the pleading creaking of the ship's timber as she protested against being manoeuvred so unnaturally. I heard a second boom, followed by another splash, only this time, the other ship was much closer in its target: the force of the cannonball was enough to send the Pearl tilting and me stumbling back into the hard unyielding bars of the cells. Perhaps it had hit the hull under the water, but what did I know? Ships most certainly were not my speciality—I wasn't even certain where the hull _was._

"_Pearl!_" I cried, though I knew by now that she was far away from the dank cells and probably unable to hear my voice. Running back to the staircase, I tripped over the hem of my skirt, reaching out with my hands so as to somehow break my fall. I could hear the sound of one cannon, then another, firing at the enemy ship. Pushing myself up, I lifted my skirts and continued my mad and graceless ascent.

The first level of the _Pearl_ was eerily abandoned, a stark contrast to the shouts and miscellaneous clattering sounds of battle from above. I looked around me, half hoping that Pearl would leap out at me, or at me, or would be curled up in a corner somewhere…

Perhaps she was in our cabin?

So I climbed up another flight of stairs, speeding down the hall, and threw the cabin door open, only to find… nothing. Oh God, I'd misplaced Pearl!

Frustrated, I slammed the door shut, whirling back around and searching desperately for Pearl. A sudden unexpected shot from the other ship had me struggling for balance yet again. A sudden lurch of my stomach told me I was very probably going to throw up. Again.

This was unbelievable: I'd lost Pearl, my balance, and now, I was very probably about to lose my breakfast, too.

I stood static in the hallway, one hand groping at the wall, the other at my stomach, feeling fear and nausea sweep over me in equal measure whilst the battle continued to rage above. Before I could even calm my protesting stomach, the clumsy clattering and yelps of a violently-beaten man forced down the stairs alerted me of another's presence. Looking up, I saw Anamaria raining blows down on a shabbily-dressed man that I'd naturally assumed to be a Frenchman. He literally jumped down the rest of the steps, scrambling madly towards me. I couldn't say I'd blamed him much: Anamaria brandished a cutlass in her hand, whilst he was, as far as I could see, unarmed.

Reaching me, he dropped abruptly to his knees, clutching the hem of my skirt and jabbering for mercy in muddled French I only half-understood.

"Sierra, get away from him!" Anamaria ordered me sharply. I tried, but his grimy fingers were firmly attached to my skirt.

"I can't!" I told her desperately, and she growled viciously in response.

"If you'd just stayed in the brig—"

"Pearl ran away!" I defended. "It wasn't—"

The Frenchman cut my whiny defence short by standing suddenly and looking at me with widened, murky grey eyes. "_Mademoiselle?_" he asked, hardly daring to believe it. "_Madame la comtesse?_"

"…Okay," I replied uncertainly. He immediately released my clothing, stepping back, before a stream of pleas and praise erupted from his open mouth, occasionally punctuated with '_Madame la comtesse_.'

"…Ana?" I pleaded. "Help me with this… lunatic…"

I looked up to see her eyebrows furrowed in thought. "What's he calling you?" she asked over his verbal diarrhoea.

I blinked. "He didn't call me anything," I said. "He's just—what's the word?—addressing me, that's all—"

"How?"

I blinked. "_'How?'_"

"Aye, how's he talking to you?" she asked. "What's he addressing you as? What's he _saying?_"

"He's begging me to convince you spare his life—"

"I got that much," Anamaria interjected with the slightest prodding of her sword. "But what's he _calling_ you?"

"'Miss,' obviously," I translated, still completely bewildered.

"And the other one?" she pressed.

" 'My lady,' 'your ladyship'… I think," I replied bewilderedly. "I'm not really certain as the literal translation is 'my lady, the countess,' and… Why are you looking at me like that?"

Anamaria's eyes had met mine, sparkling with a sudden relief, and she grinned at me. "Something you've neglected to mention, Sierra?" she half-laughed, poking the cutlass further into the back of the sailor's neck. His voice noticeably rose several octaves.

"I really don't know what he's talking about, although I've the suspicion—the tiniest little hunch—that he's confusing me with some…" I paused to listen to his high, hysterical ramblings. "He thinks I'm a _countess,_" I clarified for her. "Somebody called Mademoiselle d'Évignon…"

"Oh, _her,_" Ana dismissed. "She's been missing for _months_—sent from Paris to marry a wealthy plantation owner that's the second son of a baron or something, I think. The little Navy ship she was on was attacked by a pirate confusing it with a merchant. Nothing's been heard of her since." Anamaria paused, frowning. "She's meant to be dead," she told me, explaining the gibbering Frenchman's reactions.

"What makes you think she's dead?" I enquired, intrigued by this woman's story.

"The pirates that attacked her ship never asked for a ransom, and you can get a hell of a lot just for a merchant's daughter, so just imagine the price of a countess…"

I nodded understandingly as another cannon was fired. "How'd you know so much about her?"

"Every pirate in the Caribbean knows the basics, love; we've all been keeping an eye out for her." She prodded the tip of the cutlass further into the ranting sailor's neck and offered me her hand. "C'mere," she ordered, "and tell him to start moving back to the deck."

I translated her basic command, and the three of us slowly made our way to the stairs.

"You know," I told her conversationally, "from the very little I've seen so far, this really isn't what I'd expected of a sea battle."

"That's 'cause this ain't a battle, at least from our side it's not," she replied gruffly. "Move!" And she kicked the trembling man in the shin.

"Well then, what is it?"

"Some of the crew's manning the cannons, others—like me—are on deck keeping some of the daft blighters from swinging aboard—"

"I can see that's going well," I remarked with a glance at the hostage.

"And the rest are rowing the oars. I think Sparrow's plan is to fight and hold 'em off for as long as it takes to outrun them."

"How does he know we'll be able to?" I asked. "I mean, if the other ship was able to catch up with us—"

"The _Pearl_'s _s'posed_ to be the fastest ship in the Caribbean," Anamaria explained. "Mind you, these sailors are right—what's the word?—agile. Five of them have already landed on the deck, so we just threw them into the sea. It seems like this particular crew would like to bring us in for trial as well as sink us—"

"Which is why you're dragging me up?" I guessed.

"Aye, exactly—if they think you really are this countess woman, they'll cease fire like that—_SPARROW!_" she suddenly bellowed the moment my feet touched the floorboards of the deck. I jumped at the sudden increase in volume. So did the sailor.

From across the deck at the wheel, Jack looked towards us. I couldn't read his expression from so far away, but I had the vaguest feeling he looked utterly bewildered. Motioning for the three of us to stay exactly where we were, he barked at a nearby sailor to take his position at the tiller, running down the stairs and across the chaotic deck. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something go up in smoke on the other ship, and shuddered.

"I take it you've a reasonable explanation as to why you've dragged Sierra up here?" he enquired Ana. "Is Pearl alright?" he asked abruptly of me.

"I sent her to our—her cabin whilst I went to get the two pirates out of the brig," I lied swiftly; surely she'll come out of her hiding place once all of this was over…?

He nodded, glancing curiously at the quivering sailor.

"Whilst Sierra was coming back up to join your daughter, this blabbering idiot—" she kicked the Frenchman's shin again, "saw her and immediately jumped to the conclusion that she was that d'Évignon countess, remember her?"

"Aye, I do," Jack answered, looking at me with sudden interest—_finally._ "Are you suggesting—"

"We send this blighter back to his ship, wait for him to tell his captain of her presence, bring her up to the portside with you holding a pistol to her pretty head—"

"And sail happily away into the sunset," Jack concluded before glancing up at the dark sky with ominously swirling clouds. "Or, in this case, tropical storm—" He grabbed my hand, jerking me towards him, and, forcing me to turn so that my back was to him, wrapped the other arm tightly around my waist. Releasing my hand, he fumbled at his belt for his pistol, looking at the sailor as he pressed it against my skull.

"_Tell your captain we have Lady d'Évignon onboard, and we'll happily exchange her if your crew ceases this rather hostile attack on my ship,_" he told the man in French. "_But we're more than ready to blast her lovely aristocratic head off if you don't. Understand?_" The paling Frenchman nodded dumbly.

"Anamaria, please lead this man to the nearest rope—and take the tiller from Locke. I want us ready to outrun this fishing dinghy in five minutes whilst I stand at the rail making faces." I raised my eyebrow at this last remark.

Anamaria, on the other hand, didn't seem to find Jack's last words at all out of the ordinary. "Aye, captain," she answered, visibly straightening.

"You're not _really_ going to hand me over, are you?" I asked as Ana began to drag the messenger away.

I felt the beads of his braided beard resting against my shoulder as he attempted to crane his neck so as to properly see my face. "I could, if you wanted me to," he answered. "And I wouldn't particularly hold it against you if you did, sweetheart."

I turned my head so that we were practically nose-to-nose. "Really?"

"If I let you go with them, you'll be returned to the countess's family in Paris—I think her fiancé's engaged to another mindless debutante by now… You'll be living a noblewoman's life—"

"Including the pretty dresses?" I asked abruptly, and his eyes widened.

"What _is_ this female obsession with clothing?" He asked himself. "I just don't see the attraction…"

"Pretty dresses?" I pressed. At his utterly blank stare, I elaborated: "Satin ball gowns, jewels, silk stockings, lacy—"

"_I_ can get you silk stockings!" he randomly interrupted.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Do you want me to stay, or do you want me to go?"

"I don't give a rat's arse either way—" he began nonchalantly.

"_Fine,_" I snapped. "I'll go."

"You'll go?"

"Yeah," I confirmed. "I want to go. I want to—to—to live a noblewoman's life, as you put it—with the balls and the dresses and the jewels and—and—"

"So you want to go?" he pressed.

"_Yes,_" I confirmed. "Oh, don't look at me like that—"

"Look at you like what?"

"Like I'd just kicked you in the—" I paused as Jack visibly winced. "Exactly," I told him. "Like _that._"

He glared at me in the silence that followed—silence? Yes, silence: The cannon fire had stopped.

Jack turned his head away to look at the French ship, staring at intently at the ensign flying high above in the breeze. I followed his gaze, my eyes bulging.

"_That's_ the French flag?"

"For _this_ squadron, yes."

"It's just… I didn't think that it'll…" I wasn't certain of what I was going to say, gawking at the proudly billowing cloth. It certainly wasn't the simple, tricolour design that was the flag of France _I'd_ recognise; it was a cream-white rectangle, stamped with dozens of golden _fleurs-de-lis_, and so much more elegant than the three fat stripes that was the symbol of the French Republic. I visibly pouted when it was slowly being reeled down, and a simple white square was rigged up in its place.

"That was quick," he remarked, sounding faintly impressed. "They're surprisingly organised… Come on—" and he pulled me with him to the railing.

"Wriggle a little bit, won't you?" he hissed into my ear.

"Why?" I asked. "I feel pretty comfortable here…"

"Well—struggle to escape," Jack amended, moving the pistol from my head to salute a tall, sallow-looking man in a cleaner version of the wig that Father Dickinson wore. I visibly wrinkled my nose: what _was_ that wig about? That particular style of hairpiece was everywhere; it was like a super-wig. I was certain that wig would haunt till the end of my days…

"What are you staring at?" Jack asked me, slightly bewildered. "The captain's not _that_ good-looking… Unless you like the clearly-sick-and-dying type…"

"I was staring at the wig," I explained.

"Ah." He tightened his grip on my waist, and my response was to giggle flirtatiously and lean back into him. "You're not even going to _try_ to get away from me, are you?"

"Well, I'm meant to be a countess, aren't I? And it's just a little unseemly for an _aristocrat_ to struggle—very inelegant, you see—"

"You could've just said you enjoy being wrapped up in my arms," Jack correctly interpreted.

I shrugged ever so slightly. "That might have something to do with it," I admitted. "But don't worry, I'm certain they're under the completely misleading impression that I'm paralysed with fear…"

"You just _giggled._"

"Well, that's how I act when I'm scared; I try to manipulate the ruggedly handsome pirate captain pressing a gun into my forehead, but in reality, I'm secretly close to fainting with fear."

"If that's the case, now would be the superlative time to faint."

I blinked. "You want me to faint?"

"Don't worry, I won't drop you, you're very light and pressed against me—"

"I can't just _faint!_"

"Of course you can, I did it all the time as a lad—"

" But if I faint—if they _think_ I've fainted—I won't be able to leave this ship," I pointed out to him.

"And that's a dagger to my heart, to be sure, but if your lingering presence on my ship is the price I must pay to have you passing out in my arms, then so be it."

"I absolutely _refuse_ to pass out in your arms."

"Go _on_—swoon a little—for me?" And he widened his brown eyes pleadingly.

"How many times do I have to say it? Captain Jack Sparrow, I refuse to swoon into your arms!"

"Now you see, Sierra, it's that exact attitude problem that renders the two of us so incompatible in the bedroom."

I stamped on his foot in response, crossing my arms.

"Oh, for Christ's sake…" he groaned on seeing me rearranging my limbs. "This looks less and less like a hostage situation with every passing minute…"

"I want to get on that ship," I hissed stubbornly at him.

"And that's all very well and good, darling, but here's a dilemma—how do you suggest we get you across?"

"Well—you can swing me over, can't you?"

"Yes, but such a course of action requires _effort_ on my part."

"Do you want me to _stay?_" I asked him. "If you want me to stay, then just say it."

"I've told you before, I won't be greatly affected either way…"

"Well then, I—I want to go," I tested.

"You want to go?"

"Yes, we've been through this," I sighed.

"Do you really want to go?"

"To Paris? Of course I do."

"So you're sure about this? You'd really prefer to go with those French Naval ponces rather than stay here?"

"Is that a problem?" I asked innocently.

He placed his fingers under my chin, forcing me to look at him as he enquired disbelievingly, "Do you really—"

"_Yes!_" I snapped.

"You could have told me beforehand," Jack reprimanded as the _Pearl_ suddenly lurched, "we've just weighed anchor."

I tried to pull away, but seeing as I was already pressed against the railing, that proved impossible. "Jack," I said tiredly, raising a hand to rest on my temples in an exasperated manner, "I wouldn't have gotten the wrong impression if you'd told me that you wanted me to stay."

"_I_ don't want you to stay," Jack said, his eyes on the now-unthreatening Navy ship that we were leaving behind. "I don't even like you that much, truth be told."

"…You don't?" I asked, turning in his arms the better to look at him—I was getting a cramp from craning my neck over my shoulder. "Are you saying you… despise me or something?"

"'Despise' is too strong a word," Jack said. "Don't get me wrong—it's just that I don't know you very well—you can't seriously expect me to decide whether I'm fond of a woman if I don't particularly know her somewhat, can you?"

I glared at him from over my shoulder, and he laughed, but not unkindly.

"Sierra, can you honestly say you're fond of me?"

"From what I've seen of you, heard of you, and know of you, yes," I answered, and he flashed me his proud, lopsided grin.

"Really?"

"Yes, really, but I do see your point. What I think of you is only a first impression—except it isn't a first impression, it's more a preconception made before evidence is taken into consideration: If I was to seriously take my first impression of you into account, then I would only think of you as a selfish, arrogant, gun-toting, cleric-impersonating pirate with an inclination towards the male sex and no navigational skills to speak of—in the bedroom, at least."

His smirk effectively vanished. "That was just… uncalled for," he said, sounding genuinely hurt.

"You can always hit back," I suggested. I knew I'd crossed several lines and had aimed far below the belt, and strangely enough, I felt guilty about it, and I didn't know why. I wanted him to insult me in return, just to make up for all of the cruel—but true, as far as I was concerned—thoughts and opinions I had voiced aloud. Why was that? So I could harbour his cruel words and slowly accumulate a bitter hatred of the man, thus rendering my animalistic attraction to him to naught more than distant memory I would wince at recalling?

I looked expectantly up at him, unconsciously bracing myself for an onslaught of abuse. There was just so much that he could use against me: how I was a whore, how much like a bitter crone I was, how I was such a self-involved bitch, my unshaved legs…

"And you see, I would, except I don't think you actually mean it—gun-toting and cleric-impersonating aside, that is."

I blinked at him, completely caught off guard. "You don't?"

"No, I sincerely don't."

"But—how come? What makes you think that I don't?"

"Firstly: everything you've accused me of—the arrogance and selfishness and your little comment on my technique under the bedcovers—which hurt a lot, might I add—has been rendered completely fallacious and therefore meaningless in the fact that I am the one charged with such accusations."

I blinked in confusion. "Care to elaborate on that, you walking lexicon?"

Jack spread his hands wide in a seemingly world-weary manner. "I am Captain Jack Sparrow—the embodiment of perfection in human form," he said, as though I was a very slow child unable to grasp such a blindingly obvious concept.

I laughed, leaning back against the railing. "Clearly I was mistaken in accusing you of arrogance."

He smiled back, pleased that he'd succeeded in pulling me out of my vicious circle of hate. "Secondly: your rather bitter tone of voice implied that you were simply in a fairly spiteful mood. Thirdly: your facial expression after you've shared your rather twisted opinions suggests that you were immediately overcome with overpowering, all-consuming remorse—"

There came the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat from behind Jack. Jack curiously turned, and groaned in exasperation.

"What?" I asked, curiously peering over his shoulder to see the wigged Father Dickinson glaring back at me.

"And exactly what's happening here, Jack, my son?" he asked severely, punctuating his last words with a slight hiccup.

"You've been drinking again, haven't you?" Jack accused, and I giggled, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

Father Dickinson didn't find this response at all amusing, settling for glaring at the captain with watery, unfocused eyes. "My misguided lamb," he began, and I snorted as Jack winced, "with each and every passing moment that you spend within this witch's presence, you offer fragments of your immortal soul to—"

"I think I should go," I cut short, nodding uncertainly at the bleary-eyed piece. "Jack, move…"

Jack's head snapped towards me with the music of his beads and he stared at me in wide-eyed horror for the shortest instance before swiftly placing a hand on the smoothed rail on either side of me. I lowered my eyebrows at him. "What?"

He subtly jerked his head to the side.

"_What?_" I asked, still completely nonplussed.

"Please don't leave me," he whispered fearfully to me, widening his eyes. The resemblance to Pearl was more than a little uncanny.

Oh God: Pearl. Where did she go?

"Jack, I need to check up on Pearl," I lied, secretly praying that she'd have turned up somewhere. Perhaps she was simply all curled up in a broom closet…? Yes, that was exactly where she was: a broom closet. Now I needed to find out where they kept the brooms.

"Father Dickinson?" He visibly flinched as I addressed him.

"The best of luck towards your… sermon," I finished lamely, attempting to pry one of Jack's hands off of the railing. "Jack…"

"No," he insisted stubbornly. "Pearl's a smart girl, she can take care of—watch it, that hem's very delicate, love—" As I attempted to pull his entire arm upwards by yanking on his shirtsleeve.

"Jack—"

"Beware the luring voice of the siren, son," Father Dickinson continued to advise.

"Please don't leave me—"

"Do you really think I'm just going to stand here and let this—this wigged hypocrite call me a whore and witch and siren—"

"COVER YOUR EARS!" Father Dickinson bellowed suddenly, causing Jack and I to jump. I quickly ducked under the captain's arm, and the alcoholic cleric recoiled, hissing hostilely as I passed.

"Rejoice, my child! 'Tis a joyous day when a whore of Satan—"

"Can't you just shut up for one bloody minute!" I heard Jack snap as I stole my way across the deck. Looking back, I saw the vaguest silhouette of the French vessel melting away into the stormy horizon.

"Did you just say—?" Father Dickinson began disbelievingly, and I heard the final sounds of a stinging slap, immediately followed by Jack's yelp of angered pain.

I stole my way down to the brig, but refused to go any further; it was just as dark and uninviting as earlier in the day, when I'd first lost Pearl. The level above, which I gathered were a mixture of storage rooms and the crew's sleeping quarters, judging by the abundance of abandoned hammocks I saw. The next storey was the home of the galley I'd began to grace so regularly with my presence, and even more storage.

So far, no trace of the blue-eyed Sparrow child.

The next level was the gun deck, which I'd bypassed as swiftly as I could; there were still a handful of crewmen cleaning and sorting through the remains of the impromptu and unremarkable sea battle lasting a grand total of three minutes. Somehow, I didn't think that Pearl would be here.

The next storey up was where mine and Pearl's cabin was located. I pushed the door open, peering inside at the empty room. Numb, confused, and more than a little anxious, I slowly pushed the cabin door shut, pushing my hair out of my face and sitting on the large chest at the foot of the rather large bed Jack had issued to his daughter. It squeaked unexpectedly at my weight, but otherwise, showed no signs of life.

Leaning forward, I propped an elbow on my knee, nervously nibbling at my fingernails as I silently reviewed all of the areas of the ship I had visited. I supposed she _could_ have been on the gun deck; she was a sweet little girl, and I had the sneaking suspicion she was extremely well-adept at slipping through undetected.

But who in their right mind would allow a child near a cannon? It didn't make any sense. Dejected that I was able to logically dismiss my own brainwave, I kicked at the chest I was sitting on, emitting another squeak.

I suppose it was fairly possible for Pearl to have snuck up into Jack's cabin—she still had to tidy up whatever havoc she'd unleashed, didn't she? But if that was the case, why hadn't either Jack or I noticed her? She was, after all, very energetic and attention-seeking; she'd have latched herself to Jack's braid or something, wouldn't she? I could see the picture so clearly: little Pearl Sparrow, happily swinging off of her father's headscarf like a little tree-climbing primate.

So that theory was immediately abandoned.

Frustrated, I viciously slammed the heel of my foot into the trunk I was using as a chair, causing it to squeal in fear.

Hang on a minute…

I cast a suspicious glance down at the case, which remained perfectly still and absolutely silent.

Cautiously, I gently tapped the chest with my heel. It didn't respond.

I kicked it harder, and this time, not only did it squeal, but it also jumped a little too.

I came to the immediate conclusion that it was either alive… or haunted…

I stood, and I heard the box sigh in relief.

"Is somebody in there?" I asked it, glaring suspiciously at the box.

"…Maybe…" the box replied in embarrassment.

"Pearl, is that you?"

"…No…" the talking trunk answered sheepishly.

I narrowed my eyes, an amused smile tugging at my lips. "Oh, Pearl…"

-x!x-

AN: Well, wasn't that a little anticlimactic, seeing how the last chapter ended? Happy Halloween!

VagrantCandy: I'm sure there is a difference, on some level or another; it's simply a very fine line between the two… You know, there have been philosophical debates on that…

Spikez-babe91: You'll find out why Jack can't in the next chapter or so; hang in there.

wayunlucky13: Aw, thanks for both your reviews. When writing this chapter, I did take your impatient soul into account, along with mine… It's just that I am quite a crappy updater, but I do my best. I usually update SOMETHING every week. You've been warned. But anyway, thanks again for your kind words; out of curiosity, is there anything about this fic that you particularly like/hate? I'm just curious…

Opi: Thanks for reviewing honestly; I don't always get a "this is good, but I think that this needs a little work…" Random time jumps? I knew that I'd occasionally skipped ahead, but I thought I'd indicated it… I'll need to go back and fix those; could you give me an example of one or something? I'm glad you like Pearl's character; I certainly had fun writing her. And I'm so happy that you like the way I'd portrayed Anamaria; she didn't get a lot of screen time in the movie, so it's hard to write her. And I agree with you on Sierra being annoying, but hey, stubbornness and a mild case of delusion are some of her flaws. I think I put in an author's note a while back that she wasn't meant to be likeable all the time…

Kitty-Kat26: I really like writing priests/nuns into this fic, and I don't actually know why… It's not that I'm religious or anything, it just happens… And Sierra didn't rape him, but let's just say factors beyond Jack's control has rendered him into a bout of sexual abstinence. ;) I think the word you're looking for is complexity or depth; at least, my version of Jack is that there's a lot beneath the surface, but that comes in later.

Anne la Jordanie: Ah, old internet connection's still giving you a hard time then? Maybe you should get a new one—ISP or computer, or hey, why not get both? It sounds like you need to be pretty patient to get onto the net, and if you take into account that I'm updating less frequently, you'll need a fair amount of it. And no, this wasn't the time she impersonated the French countess that I mentioned earlier; the French countess is a recurring plot-device that is, from Sierra's point of view, very insignificant—and a little annoying, but as I said, that comes later. Book-rape? I don't think it's book-rape, per se; more along the lines of printed-paper rape. Feel free to copy and paste, but please, for the sake of your printer, don't print it all at once; it'll probably take up about fifty pages. You thought the wigged man was Flavio? He does act a little like him, doesn't he? Although come to think of it, dragging Flavio in here for a chapter or two should prove amusing… I don't see him/her getting along with Father Dickinson too well though…

TigerTiger02: It depends how long the course is, doesn't it? I mean, if it was only a two-hour seminar, then it's more than possible to go through the entire course drunk—or unconscious. I'm not an expert on the effects of alcohol on the liver either, surprisingly enough. I guess it's a good thing that there isn't another Pearl-like character running amok in the PotC fandom—it makes me seem more original that way. What I find really odd about most of the fan fictions I've read so far is that they very rarely deal with the normal mundane stuff, like shaving your legs or tan lines or frizzy hair—this IS the Caribbean, is it not? I thought that this chapter was a little—I don't know, anticlimactic, I guess. Any battle sequences I attempt to write will be boring and repetitive, as our narrator, very surprisingly enough, has no idea how to wield a blade and is therefore shunned from all scenes of blood and violence…


	27. A Long Awaited Explanation

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**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Twenty-Six:** A Long-Awaited Explanation_

"You can have Pearl back," a voice said in my ear. I spun with a shriek, nearly hitting Jack with the frying pan I was rinsing. He immediately jumped back, hands raised.

"I didn't know you hated her _that_ much!" he defended, his own voice a yelp.

"God, Jack, don't _do_ that," I gasped, lowering the pan and setting it back into the sink. I wiped my hands dry on my skirt, looking up at him curiously. "Where is she, then?" I asked, being unable to spot a bouncing blue-eyed brunette in the vicinity.

"Dusting the cobwebs from beneath my bed," Jack answered nonchalantly, sitting down on a crate containing what I assumed to be some sort of foodstuff; this was the galley, after all. "I just thought it'll be polite if I warned you first."

"Well, it was," I nodded, fidgeting with my skirt for lack of actual productive activities. After a very awkward silence had passed in which he closely examined my face, I eventually asked, "Um… is that all?"

"I should think so," Jack replied cheerfully, not at all uncomfortable.

"So why are you still here?" I'd blurted out unthinkingly.

He looked as though I'd just slapped him. "Do you not want me here?"

"No, it's just that…" I floundered helplessly, unable to find the words needed to communicate my reasoning.

Sensing my discomfort, Jack shifted on the crate, patting the space beside him invitingly. Wondering what on earth was going on through his mind to make him behave so friendlily towards me, I accepted his invitation, smoothing out my skirts once I'd sat, and silently swore to make certain I'd keep my hands firmly to myself—no matter how tempting it was to do otherwise.

My God, it was so tempting.

"So, how've you been?" I asked, looking at him whilst I leant forward ever so discreetly; there wasn't much room on the crate, and I was worried I'll send him into cardiac arrest if I touched him—although I still wasn't certain that there was any occurrence of rape to begin with, but Jack's opinion of my first night on his _Pearl_ clearly differed from my own. For example, I'd thought that _he_ was the one who came on to _me,_ and I'd immediately rejected him because of… God, what was it? Ah yes, it was because he thought my name was Sahara. _Then_ I'd forced myself upon him after realising that Andrew had simply manipulated, and God how that hurt: the fact that I was stupid enough to be manipulated, not because I'd loved him. But I guess that I did, a little, actually; he was the most gentlemanly man that I had met, and I certainly considered him to be a friend, at the very least…

But enough reminiscing. Back to the shared crate.

Jack gave me an amused sidelong glance. "That can't be good for your back," he commented, his arm reaching out to grab my waist and pull me closer to him.

No, wait, he didn't pull me closer to him—he downright pulled me into his lap. I swallowed uncomfortably; this really wasn't doing any miracles for my newfound vow of chastity, as he very probably knew. Jack's brown eyes were sparkling with amusement as he held tightly onto my waist—but only to stop me from falling and potentially cracking my skull open, as I very likely would have done had it not been for his support.

"Um, Jack," I started uncomfortably as he merely stared at me, "why—I mean, is there any particular reason for your being here?"

"No, not really," he cheerfully admitted, still studying my features.

I narrowed my eyes at him. "If you tell me one more that I have a pretty nose, I swear to God I'll—"

"Oh, a death threat," Jack said, looking very much intrigued at the thought of my hacking him to pieces with an axe. "Go on."

"I'll rape you," I said confidently, and he paled considerably.

"…Well…" he said, "That… Wouldn't be very pleasant…"

"Of course it would," I snapped. "It'll be more than just 'pleasant'—it'll be several hours of mind-numbing, earth-shattering, back-breaking—for you—gratification!"

"It probably would," he agreed quite calmly. "But how can you guarantee all of that?"

I looked up at him sulkily. "Because that was what it was like before, in the Garter," I recalled. "And that night three weeks ago—oh Jack, where did it all go so twisted and depraved and wrong?"

He looked at me blankly. "You're calling celibacy _depraved?_"

"For us, yes," I said. I was about to wrap my arms about his neck and kiss him and rape him again, if necessary, but then realised that it wouldn't have been a good idea, in my present state. So I looked up at him in confusion instead. "Have you really not—thought about it?"

"Of course not," he snapped viciously at me, looking scandalised. "What sort of a man do you take me for?"

"The pre-castrated sort," I snapped right back. He narrowed his eyes and turned his head away in a sulk.

"Jack…" I sighed in irritation. "Jack, can you honestly tell me you don't want to?"

"Yes."

I raised my eyebrow. "Oh, really?"

"Yes, really," he agreed, very suddenly irate.

"That's a lie."

"It's God's honest truth, I haven't wanted to do anything."

I laughed. "Oh my God, Jack, you're lying so much."

"What makes you think I'm lying?" he asked, clearly affronted that his word was being questioned.

I replied with a query of my own. "Jack," I said, shaking my head to keep my amusement firmly under control, "Can you honestly tell me you don't want me right now?"

"Yes," he said firmly, looking deep into my eyes.

"But you do, don't you?" I said, wriggling further into his arms. This time I had wrapped my arms around his neck, my hands buried in his thick black hair.

"Don't flatter yourself," he said, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"Believe me, Jack, when I say that I can tell when a man wants me and when he could do without."

"Well, I think you've greatly misread me, Sierra," he said.

I smiled knowingly at him. I was feeling very wicked today. "Somehow, I don't think that's the case," I confided. "As a matter of fact, I think I'm reading you perfectly—as a matter of fact, I _know_ I'm reading you right."

He was looking at me in amusement once again. "Is that so?"

"Oh yes," I confirmed. "I _am_ sitting in your lap, you know." His condescending smirk effectively vanished.

"What?" I said as a wave of mortification flooded his features. "You think I wouldn't notice?"

"Get off me," he ordered.

"No," I said.

"Please?" he suddenly implored.

"Sorry, honey," I told him mournfully, "not yet. I'll like for you to clarify a few things first, if you'll be so willing."

"Says the rapist," he accused.

"Shut up, it wasn't rape—_you_ were in complete control, if I recall correctly." I raised myself up a little to kiss the tip of his nose fondly, and he scowled at me. Clearly, Jack hated being treated as a child—it was the type of kiss I'd give Pearl, and he knew it well.

"Very well," he said with an air of defeat about him. "What are your enquiries, darling?"

"Very few, all of which are related," I comforted him. "Simply the following: did you _really_ not think about me like _that_ for the past three weeks, why didn't you respond to any of my advances or, indeed, attempt to instigate any form of sexual activity, and when will you be willing to?"

He looked at me in open admiration. "Is that really all you think about?" he asked eagerly.

"Yes, unfortunately," I admitted. "It's actually a medical, emotional, and psychological condition."

"Well, I'll tell you now, I'm extremely fond of your psychosis," he said. "But, in answer to your many legitimate enquiries: firstly, yes, Sierra, I have allowed my mind to wallow a little deeper into the gutter than I perhaps should have allowed—"

"How many times?"

"Too many," he said with an embarrassed grin. "Although they've become more frequent and… graphic in the past couple of days…"

"Since you moved in with me, you mean."

"Yes, since I've moved in with you," he agreed. "You next asked why I refused your advances? It wasn't because I'd found you undesirable, if that's your concern."

"Well then, why—"

He brought his finger to my lips. "Hush a moment, won't you?" he said. "It's quite simple, actually: I was forbidden."

I blinked. "…You were forbidden?" I asked when he didn't make a move to elaborate. He nodded. "_Forbidden?_"

"Aye, forbidden."

"_Forbidden?_" I repeated. "How could you be _forbidden?_ I mean, you're the captain, so you should…"

"I know," Jack agreed, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "But this isn't a dictatorship—"

"Well, perhaps it's time you _make_ it a dictatorship," I cut across.

He blinked in confusion. "Pardon?"

"Well, seeing how we're living on a floating democracy," I reasoned, "and that's all very well and good, but when it starts to affect the more personal aspects of a man's—or more importantly, the more personal aspects of _my_ life—"

"This isn't all about _you,_" he interjected, but I slammed a hand to his mouth, effectively silencing him.

"Don't be stupid," I sang, "of course it's all about me. I don't care about anybody else—now where was I? Ah yes—Jack," and I looked meaningfully into his incredulous brown eyes the better to accentuate the importance of my suggestion: "It's high time you introduce a fascist regime."

He blinked again. "A fascist regime?"

"A fascist regime," I repeated solemnly. "Just like Stalin and Mussolini's."

"Who's Stalin and Mussolini?"

"Dictators of Italy and Russia respectively," I replied, "but they're of no actual importance." I slammed my hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look down at me. He immediately yelped instead.

"What's the matter?"

"You just slapped me!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Yes, you did!"

"All I did was grab your face and—"

"You _double_-slapped me," he whined, ignoring my protests.

"Aw, poor baby," I coddled, immediately releasing his cheeks. His hand immediately flew up to massage the skin of one cheek, and he looked resentfully up at me through his lashes, his entire expression contorted in a pout.

"You know, for a fully-grown man who's supposedly the most fearsome pirate in the Spanish Main, you sure as hell pout a lot," I commented.

"I _do not_ pout," he scowled, contradicting this rather firm statement by pouting even further. He looked just as cute Pearl now. Then again, they _were_ related…

I clapped my hands in glee. "Aw, you look so adorable!" I exclaimed, unable to prevent my squeal of delight.

"That's it," he hissed, his hands slipping around me. "I refuse to be sat on _and_ insulted in the same given instant."

I wrapped my arms firmly about his neck, my fingers grabbing onto a lock of beads and clinging firmly. "I _will_ pull," I threatened.

"You wouldn't dare," he growled, his face only inches from my own. My response was to give the braid a little twitch, and his dark eyes comically widened.

"I'm a nymphomaniac under a forced vow of celibacy," I reminded. "You have no idea what I'm capable of under these conditions."

"Believe me, love, if I had my own way, you wouldn't be under any oath of celibacy, even if by some unnatural reasoning you rather would be," he assured me. Then he added rather meekly, "Could you please let go of my beads now?"

My hand slowly unclenched, but I kept my body still, looking up at him.

"Yes?" he asked, sensing my hesitation.

"Even if you were… forbidden, as you put it, you could've still gotten away with it, couldn't you?" I asked slowly. "I mean, it's not like they're spying at you through keyholes or listening at the door, are they?"

He smirked confidently, leaning into my shoulder me. "Do you really think that's the case?" he whispered in my ear, his warm breath caressing my skin.

"Well, you've ordered all of them to do sails and sweeping and things, haven't you? They must all be busy completing some task that you've set them at some point during the day…"

"That is the theory," he confirmed, pulling back to look at me, A wicked grin spread across his face. "Should we put it to the test?"

He bent his head towards mine before I even had the chance to reply.

Not that I would've said 'no,' of course.

Our lips brushed briefly in a chaste kiss before Jack suddenly jerked away, glaring at the inanimate door as though he could see straight through it onto the other side where something increasingly irksome awaited.

"See?" I crooned triumphantly. "Nothing happened. They were just bluffing."

"That wasn't even a proper kiss though—"

"No," I agreed, "but _this_ is."

Can you honestly not guess what happened next?

What followed for the next five or so minutes was a rather paranoid—on Jack's part—make-out session; it wasn't until Jack's deft fingers were at the laces of my stay that the door suddenly slammed open.

Jack pulled away from me roughly, hurriedly draping his arms about my shoulders instead. "'Afternoon, gentlemen," he said cheerfully to a middle-aged mute with a squawking parrot perched on his shoulder, a dwarf, and an olive-skinned male with short dark hair that was a rare combination of frizz and grease.

"Sparrow, ye backstabbin'—"

"I know, I know," he drawled, waving the protest away with a limp hand. "But _she_ started it!" he said quickly, immediately pointing at me.

"I did not!" I denied vehemently; and honestly, for once. "_You_ did!"

Jack turned sorrowful brown eyes to his crew. "Did you see the way she was throwing herself at me?" he pleaded, his tone undeniably innocent. It appeared that the three crewmen accepted Jack's testimony without question, shooting daggers at me in turn.

"_I_ threw myself at _you?_ I _threw_ myself at you!" I raged with a slap to his skull. "You were practically begging for it!"

He whipped his head around to look back at me so fast that his braid slammed into my cheek. "I don't beg," he contradicted. "Ask very meekly a few times, perhaps, but never beg—"

"I didn't throw myself at him," I said quickly, looking at the mute for support. The parrot immediately squawked, "Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho."

"See? Even Cotton agrees with me."

"The _parrot_ agrees with you," I corrected, crossing my arms stubbornly. "I don't hold the testimony of a bird in very high regard or credibility."

"The parrot has spoken," Jack uttered in a concluding tone, standing and making his way to the group of three.

He paused, turning back to look at me briefly. "What I really came down here to say 'fore you—did—_that_—" he shuddered as though I _had_ molested him after all, and I rolled my eyes. "What I meant to say—as well as informing you of Pearl's return—was simply to advise you stay below decks for tonight," he said briefly whilst his avenging angels glared at me.

"How come?"

"Vicious bloody storm on the horizon. We've found a lovely little abandoned islet to anchor at—should be there in an hour or so, perfect for careening, but o' course, we'll be staying firmly locked up in our cabins till the worst has passed."

I shuddered at his ominous words, but tried to keep my face utterly calm. Clearly, Jack was expecting a hurricane or monsoon or God forbid full-on typhoon… Which wasn't exactly uncommon in the Caribbean, was it? And surely the _Pearl_ couldn't… Well, it wasn't really much… I mean, it was just made out of wood…

Looking over his shoulder, he narrowed his eyes, examining my expression intently, and I realised that my unease must have been apparent in my face.

"Captain," the dwarf said meaningfully, "we ain't sure if this concerns you or not, nor if it's actually a threat, but…"

"Well, spit it out, Marty," Jack ordered as the dwarf faltered, his head turning away as he exited without another word to me.

"Well, it's Doyle you see, he—"

But someone else—I don't think it was Cotton—interrupted.

"Captain," the tanned man said as he followed the other three around the corner, clearly unable to stop himself, "did that wench _really_ force 'herself upon ye that one time?"

"I'm afraid so, Duncan," Jack answered in the positive, his voice immediately low and demure, growing quieter as he drew further away. "Took advantage of me, the little hell-cat…"

I was overcome with the desperate urge to throw a shoe at him.

"I have _never_ taken advantage of _anybody!_" I yelled as the door rudely swung shut in my face.

Predictably, nobody answered. Enraged, I returned to my dishes, envisioning scrubbing soap into those innocent, puppy-like eyes that nobody seemed to be capable of denying…

I didn't rape Jack Sparrow. That was much was obvious now. And _his_ vow of celibacy was, like mine, forced upon him, consequently imposing the same oath upon my person, so I couldn't really blame him for that. So at long last, mostly everything was cleared up.

But there was one lingering question: Why the hell would he accuse me of raping him and share it with his entire crew? They can't intimidate him that much…

Or can they?

I furrowed my brow in thought. I recalled someone once telling me that he was marooned after a mutiny, and he'd never been the same since. Now personally, I thought that that might've somehow worked out for the best, since I quite liked Jack as quirky as he is, as opposed to his being without eccentricities. But how did the mutiny affect his sense of captaincy? Because I _had_ noticed, believe it or not, that he was consciously placing his responsibilities as captain above those of father, for example, and at times even denying _himself._ I'm sorry, but I thought he was a little too dedicated for his own good.

I sighed, feeling my anger immediately evanescing—God, how I was fickle. I felt sorry for him, I really did—I didn't _pity_ him, as that implies that I saw him as beneath me, which I most certainly didn't… And yet 'sorry' just seemed to weak a word to describe my attitude towards him…

I shook my head, feeling a migraine coming on. That was getting a little too… personal, I suppose. I most certainly didn't have any business attempting to pry into his mind and way of thinking—I knew, deep down, that I didn't possess the patience or maturity to understand him completely, and to attempt to do so would therefore be ineffectual. All I could really do was get my dishes done—with a bare minimum of drying and chapping, please—climb the stairs to the cabin I was residing within, and watch over Pearl.

I was incapable of doing much more. To Jack, I was quite useless, really.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Sorry for the wait, though I don't think I was TOO long this time 'round…

**VagrantCandy:** I've been involved in thousands—in a past life I was this old guy with a beard called Aristotle; at least I do recall lounging around a fountain with fat guys in togas slagging off the Egyptians… That might have been a history lesson I had when I was seven, though… I really don't know where Father Dickinson came from—I was just sitting there wondering what the best yet most plausible interruption could be in the scenario, and lo and behold, an alcoholic priest was born…

**Cerasi J:** Thanks so much for both your reviews! If you've read this far, you'll probably have realised that this isn't based on JUST that remark…

**Pirate's Life 4 me:** Thanks! Is there anything in particular that you like about it?

**scoobygang-alumni:** The ENTIRE thing…? Well, I apologise now for the time you've committed to my meagre scribblings which you could've spent on more productive things, like… a solution to world hunger. A treaty for world peace. Infiltrating the mafia. Something more fun… Anyway, thanks for the compliment. BTW, is there anything in particular that you like about her?

**wayunlucky13:** She's cute, isn't she? I think most people like her; that's probably what got people hooked on this fic in the first place. And the whole relationship with Jack was just me trying to keep him in character, which is REALLY painful to do… The whole 'was it rape?' thing had me so confused I decided to settle. Now Jack's just playing hard-to-get, the little whore… ;)

**KittyKat26:** That depends on what you thought Jack's problem was; what did it look like to you? 'Cause I knew, obviously, but I didn't know how it would look to a reader who doesn't know the plot, so if you could tell me what it looked like, that would… make me happy and end world hunger, so everybody wins, really… I keep writing moments in recently. I didn't actually mean to do it deliberately, but then again, this is a romance, so I had to cave sooner or later. Let's hope it's not too cliché… I'm not sure where I got Jack's mood changes came from; I'll probably end up writing that he was secretly a woman all along and had permanent PMS, but I'm trying to stay away from that subplot. No, Sierra and Pearl's appearance weren't based on any celebrities, but since you've mentioned it I've been Googling for pictures to edit. Pearl's quite easy; I've always thought of her as being like one of those china dolls, only with a more oval face and quite high cheekbones. And she doesn't have any ringlets either, her hair is straight, and black like Jack's. In my Google searches so far, the only actresses that look like Sierra in SOME of their pictures are Monica Bellucci, Charisma Carpenter, and some of Katharine Hepburn, if you imagine them all with brown hair and blue eyes. I'm guessing you've been having trouble visualising them, huh?

**Anne la Jordanie:** Well, I assumed I updated in less than a month, so you should be able to get this pretty soon. I'm glad you think I update frequently; I was doing one a month before, but that's lost me reviewers, so now I try to keep it up consistent, but I'm only human… EVERYBODY loves Pearl! It's starting to get a little repetitive: 'Thanks for reviewing, why do you like it?' 'Pearl is cute.' That's not what you call a balanced critique. 99 pages? I can only say one thing: think of the trees. Granted, the trees must've died already to have made the paper, so it's really your call. Who said Flavio will hate Sierra? She's not anymore successful with Jack than s/he is! They'll probably end up plotting together. Or maybe they'll sleep together just to spite Jack. And then Flavio might end up seducing Father Dickinson as well. That is a valid point, but the good thing is that this fic and TSOK are set in alternate universes; for example, Sierra's with Jack for just over a year in total, and then he dies, whereas TSOK is set a year later, meaning that if they were to match up, Jack would already be dead, and then Flavio's just a necrophiliac, and we can't have that, can we? If Flavio shows up here, there'll be no references to the TSOK plot, and it'll be as though Bootstrap didn't exist for him/her. Besides, it won't be JUST Flavio; I'm having a couple of people from his past coming with, even though they haven't gotten mentioned in TSOK yet… Now that that's cleared up, do you think it's a good idea? I just love the lad/lass so much, it's a shame I've writer's block or I'll be writing more of him/her…


	28. A Spot Of Violence

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Twenty-Seven:** A Spot Of Violence_

Pearl was huddled under the covers, trembling when I'd finally given up on the impossible task of cleaning the _Pearl_'s cutlery, and for the past seven minutes or so she had flatly refused to resurface.

"_Please?_" I tried again, tugging lightly at the sheet. Pearl immediately squeaked, pulling the sheet tighter about her. I assumed that she shook her head.

"_Pearl…_" I whined.

"I'm not moving," she insisted stubbornly. "I'm staying right here, and you can't—_Si-Si!_" she yelped as I ripped the bed sheet off of her completely. She scrambled up, further crumpling her cotton nightdress, and made a lunge at the blanket, tugging insistently on a corner. She seemed paler than usual, and her eyes were faintly glazed. I was so shocked at her appearance that I immediately released the coverlet, and she instantaneously proceeded to cocoon herself in the material.

"Pearl?" I asked cautiously as the child continued to wrap herself up. I saw a tired blue eye peeking curiously out from the cotton shell. Reaching out, I pushed the fabric away from her face, so that part of her disarrayed hair was leaping out unbounded from the makeshift cloak. She looked sleepily up at me, her head tilted to the side in a questioning manner.

"Have you been sleeping well?"

She shook her head, a yawn seemingly too large for her little body escaping.

"Why not?"

She flushed and lowered her eyes, muttering something incomprehensible as she burrowed further into the cloth.

"Huh?"

"…Spiders," she whispered, sitting back down on the bed.

"What do you mean?"

"There were spiders in Papa's cabin, and I… and—and—and…" She murmured something inaudible once again.

"You're scared of them?" I guessed.

"Well, they're not right!" Pearl burst out. "It's wrong for something with such a small and scrawny body to have such long and skinny legs!"

And yet Cindy Crawford, Tyra Banks, Naomi Campbell, and numerous others had somehow achieved it.

"Was that what took you so long?" I asked sympathetically, and she nodded dolefully.

"I saw a little baby spider in there, and I tried to squish it, but it was very fast and got to the top of the bookcase. So I tried climbing up it, and that didn't work, so I got Papa's chair and climbed on that instead and _then_ tried hiking up the books, and that was going fine until everything fell down, and then _I_ was nearly squished…" she related to me gloomily. "And then I saw a whole nest of ugly spiders, and they started moving about, so I ran away from them, but the door was stuck and I couldn't open it, and then that was when the whole renovation happened…"

Realisation dawned on me. "So _that_ was why you messed up Jack's cabin," I scolded. "To simultaneously murder and escape the spiders."

She lowered her eyes. "I didn't _mean_ to…" she bleated. "But they were scuttling about _everywhere,_ and…"

"I know, honey, I know," I soothed, smoothing out her hair with one outstretched hand. "No one's holding arachnophobia against you… Except maybe for Jack, but he still loves you…"

She shrugged—or at least, it _looked_ like she was raising her shoulders a little—and slumped back down, a little bundled ball curled up on the mattress.

With a small smile, I sat beside her, kicking off my shoes and unlacing the stay I'd been wearing before untying my garters and lazily rolling the stockings down a little before kicking them off. I yawned when I'd finished undressing, surprised at how tired I was; it was still quite early in the day, but then again, I had been assigned tiring—if monotonous—tasks, many of which I'd carried out on an empty—or rather, _emptied_—stomach. So, following Pearl's example, I too collapsed on the mattress, only without a protective cocoon of a blanket, or a blanket for that matter.

Looking at her, I attempted to pull the cover away from her yet again, only to be rewarded with a grunt and a kick. Scowling, I tried again, only to receive a very similar response. I soon learned my lesson.

I closed my eyes, turning away from her, and stared out at the dark sky framed in the small porthole. It was strange, watching the rain falling so heavily through the small oval, as though it was a moving picture rather than a window. Even as I watched, the clouds seemed to part, a glowing fork of lightning descending into the sea. I shuddered, praying that the stormy night Jack had promised wouldn't be a violent one.

How very wrong I was: I was completely unaware as to the full extent of the cruelties the night would bring.

Within the next hour, what had started out as a few bolts of lightning and drum rolls of thunder had turned into a howling tempest. Pearl appeared to be asleep, but I couldn't help but notice how she seemed to curl up further and roll towards me. I completely identified with her fear; tropical monsoons were destructive enough on land, if my memories of half-interestedly observing the news were any indication to go by, but on a wooden ship in full sail at sea? Even _I_ knew that was suicide.

The _Pearl_ soon began to rock, and I groaned; my seasickness was bad enough without the added momentum of the violent waves. I curled up on the mattress, my arms wrapped tightly about my stomach, as if this would somehow keep my vomit at bay.

It worked, actually—for five minutes or so. Then I just had to crawl to my sick bucket and hurl. Straightening, I coughed, wiping at my mouth with a shaking hand. Why was I so weak? No one else seemed to be affected by seasickness quite like I was. It wasn't meant to last very long, was it? Only a few weeks or so… I should've gotten over it by now…

Sighing, I staggered back to the bed, flinging an arm about the cocooned Pearl.

I think I passed out not too long after reaching the mattress.

hr 

I wasn't really certain of what had happened next, or, indeed, _when_ it had happened—it could have several hours after I had passed out, but it felt like a few minutes… So I apologise now if what follows is a little… rushed… But in my defence, I _was_ half-asleep for most of it…

Anyway:

The only thing I was aware of was a hand attempting to smother me. I was only half-awake, as I'd said, and was not entirely certain if it was dream or reality—it felt like a nightmare, so perhaps that was why I didn't struggle at first…

Something warm and indescribably heavy was on top of me, something strong—but no, it wasn't some_thing:_ more like some_one._

Pearl's screams were what snatched me back to reality.

The feel of foul-tasting lips upon my own was what snapped my eyes open.

That was when I began resisting, but it was too late—he had me pinned down with the weight of his body, his lips keeping my own silent, one hand pinning my arms high above my head whilst the other was lazily unbuttoning my shift.

He was enjoying it. He enjoyed watching, hearing, _feeling_ me thrash in fear.

The screaming had stopped now. The screaming had stopped quite a while ago, actually.

I thought of Pearl with a feeling of dread—didn't he care that a child was near? Didn't he worry about being watched, about being caught? It was evident that he—whoever _he_ was—hadn't planned this thoroughly.

But she'd stopped screaming. Had something happened to her? Were there others? My thrashing increased as I tried to turn my head, tried to catch a glimpse of—of _something._

I felt nausea creeping up my throat as I fought desperately for air—his rough, fetid kiss hadn't yet stopped, and his body was steadily crushing all the oxygen from my lungs. Perhaps he'd meant to suffocate me first; perhaps he'll wait for me to pass out yet again, or he'll wait until I was dead before he'd…

How long had he been kissing me? It had felt like an eternity of him lying atop of me, as though this one revolting kiss was all I had ever known.

With a surge of hatred, I bit down on his invasive tongue, gratified upon hearing a scream of agony rip from his throat.

He ripped his mouth from mine with a curse, backhanding my face and placing his palm over my mouth before I'd had the chance to gulp a much-needed breathe of air, relentless in his task of suffocation. Even whilst I continued to choke, my coughing and gagging stifled as they were, a part of me registered that he was still fully clothed, and I was, for the briefest of moments, glad at the thought.

I continued to thrash against him, although my struggles were growing weaker. I knew it, he knew it. I felt a jolt of fear course through me as I felt his knee forcing my legs apart—

And suddenly, there was clamour of sounds, of the door slamming open, the splintering of wood, a roar of furious voices, and then he was torn away from me, torn _off_ of me. I heard _his_ voice cursing, heard _him_ kicking, struggling, thrashing, as he tried to free himself from his captors. I gasped for air, coughing, sputtering as I attempted to spit the taste of his putrid mouth out. I tasted something bitter on my lips: blood. Whether it was his or mine, I couldn't tell, but either way, the feeling of disgust was exactly the same.

Someone was pressing a handkerchief to my bleeding mouth, the other arm behind my head supporting my skull as I continued to retch, tilting my neck slightly so that I could breathe more easily.

Weakly, I pushed myself up, wiping the tears from my face, my body shuddering. I looked towards the small group of men that had assembled in the cabin, recognising Doyle struggling between the Hispanic man that had been one of the three spying on Jack and myself earlier, and two others that were yelling at him to shut up. I didn't recognise their faces, but I recognised their Irish voices: Connelly and Donovan, the two men I had released from the brig only this morning…

Was it this morning? It seemed longer than that… Then again, with the attack of the French ship, the revelation of Jack's newfound celibacy, and now this rape attempt, this had been a rather busy and exhausting day. A great contrast to the tedious monotony I had been experiencing for weeks on end.

"You think it's jus' me, Sparrow!" Doyle was yelling furiously; blearily, I glanced around, unable to find the first man on my to-do (or rather, to-rape if you want to get technical) list. "Think she's safe now, yer own pers'nal little whore? All o' the crew are considering forcing her—they're not havin' it, Sparrow, knowing you take your pleasure from between 'er legs whilst they 'ave to wait until the next port! Hell, even that black harlot you insist on keeping aboard wants her, 'ave you seen how she's been looking at your strumpet? I even 'eard Donovan here sayin' how he'll like to—"

"Captain," one of them panted, the younger of the two Irishmen with brown hair and large innocent eyes, presumably Donovan, seeing how it was he that had interrupted Doyle at _that_ particular point in his tirade, "what are we going to do—you know, to him?"

Jack's voice answered from beside me, making me jump—when did he get there? Then I remembered the handkerchief, which had by now disappeared, although the fingers splayed on my skull remained.

"The Code clearly states that in the event of—what's the term used? The exact quote being: 'Any man offering to meddle with a prudent woman'—" A ripple of offence coursed through me amidst my confusion—I _was not_ a prude "—'without her consent shall suffer present death.'"

And before I even had a chance to allow his flippant words sink in, I heard it: I heard a pistol shot ring out in the small cabin, causing the hand supporting my head to shudder, and then an eerie silence. It seemed that even the storm had stopped for that one single moment, before a clap of thunder echoed in the room, and the waves began to rock the _Pearl_ once more.

Even through my confused state, I sensed the wrongness of it all—of Jack shooting a man in cold blood, that is. It just wasn't… It just… It didn't make sense. It didn't seem like him at all.

But then I remembered my first night on the _Black Pearl_ so long ago, when he had just returned from avenging his Pearl. But it was different then, because Pearl was his daughter, and he loved her unconditionally, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. That night was the night that Jack had slaughtered every man and woman that had had a hand in the rape of his daughter.

The _rape_ of his daughter…

There was a link in there somewhere, but I was too tired, too scared, too shocked to find it.

But was that how he did it? Did he just walk into the Garter and calmly shoot every single perpetrator that had laid a hand on his little girl, caring just as much about their deaths as he did about Doyle's? it just made him seem so… so… Well, 'cold' seemed too weak, too general a word…

I was shivering now, from fear, yes, but it wasn't wholly of Doyle and his failed intentions. I knew then that I was scared of Jack as well, unfounded though it may be.

"Throw him overboard, quick now," Jack dismissed offhandedly, as though he hadn't taken the life of a former crewmember after all. "I don't want his blood spilled in me daughter's cabin."

I shivered again at his indifference as the three men hurriedly began to pull Doyle's lifeless form to the door, his feet dragging uselessly across the floor, an expression of slack-jawed surprise now permanently etched on his features.

Jack's fingers of his free hand—the one that had fired the pistol, I realised—were on my jaw line as soon as the door had closed, using both of his hands to gently force me to look sleepily up at him. "Did he succeed?" he asked me quietly. "I mean, did he…?"

I shook my head, pulling my unbuttoned shift together. Jack's hand stopped me though, his eyes concentrated on a point between my breasts. "Did he use a knife to cut you here?" he asked abruptly.

Startled, I looked down to see a long thin line glistening with blood along my skin. "He must've done it when I was asleep," I murmured to myself, shivering at the disturbing image of Doyle looming over me with a blade in hand. I was surprised to find myself resisting the urge to ask him to kiss it better; surprised that I had thought of asking him to do so in the first place. That would've been a little… inappropriate…

And that was when I realised that I wasn't as scared of Jack as I'd first thought, not really—just unsettled at witnessing firsthand what he was capable of. Now, don't misunderstand me, I'd never liked Doyle, and that certainly hadn't changed, and a part of my mind was telling me rather smugly that Jack had shot Doyle on my behalf, but… Well, he'd done it so calmly, as if he'd done it many times before. It would've been less unsettling had Jack shown a bit of anger, or remorse, or hell, even annoyance, so I could simply write it off as a crime of passion, but… He was so collected, so calculated…

I was snapped out of musings by two small words:

"I see." And with that, he pulled the slip off of my shoulders, apparently with little to no shame.

At first, I was uncertain as to why he was undressing me, but then I realised that the material was wet from where he'd touched me. Jack was fully dressed, but he was completely drenched from being out on the deck for most of the night, braving nature's wrath.

He turned away from me, strolling to the trunk that Pearl had hidden out in whilst her namesake was under attack, pulling another shift out from it.

I recognised it as one of the many pieces of clothing I had collected during my stay at the Garter. One of the perks of being a prostitute there was that you got a lot of pretty clothes, all of which were free of charge. But what made this particular shift stand out in my mind was the fact that it was black silk, with ebony lace on the sleeves and its low décolletage. Its design was very probably the closest thing to lingerie in this century, and I wondered if Jack had deliberately picked it out.

Seeing as how he glanced from it to me and back again, clearing his throat uncomfortably and hastily dropping it back into the chest, probably not.

He returned with a plain cotton shift in white completely devoid of lace trimming, holding it out to me and helping me slip my arms into the sleeves.

"You'll be alright," he whispered to me as he watched me buttoning up the dress.

"How did you know what was happening?" I asked him quietly in return.

"Pearl came running up to the deck crying her sweet little heart out 'bout you, apparently as soon as she was pushed aside by that dead bastard. She's with Gibbs now," he added thoughtfully. I couldn't help but notice his hand slipping into my own. I tightened my grip on his fingers, making him start; apparently, the hand had done so of its own accord.

"Was what he was saying true?" I asked quietly. "About the others… thinking…"

"Of course it was," he said, rather bluntly. "You see, this was why I was so angry with Pearl when I'd found out that you were here. You're much too beautiful to be kept aboard a pirate ship—it's why I never offered to bring Beth onboard: the temptation's just too strong, and Sierra, darling, the crew are only human… Except for me, as I am a greater being and therefore unaffected by you women's enticing allure."

I snorted. "No, you're not."

"Well, I am higher than most. _I_ have control of my animal instincts."

"No, you don't."

"Must you always be so contradictory?" he asked, exasperated with my quiet obstinacy. Then he smiled at me. "I can see you're perfectly fine," he said, making as though to leave.

I tightened my grip on his hand. He tried to pull the kidnapped appendage out of the vice, glancing curiously down his arm.

"Sierra, it appears as if your fingers have an extreme liking for my own."

I yanked hard, forcing him to crouch back down.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say it was deliberate…" he continued conversationally, looking into my eyes.

"Can't you stay with me?" I pleaded. I was feeling just as Pearl had felt: I didn't want to be alone.

His response was to look nervously at the door, and I rolled my eyes. "No, not like that," I sighed.

He still hesitated, looking at me suspiciously, and I was overcome with the violent urge to hit him for his idiocy.

"You don't trust me, do you? Even though you're stronger than I am and I've stopped throwing myself at you, you still—"

"Alright, I'll stay!" he said quickly, realising that I was growing slightly hysterical. Well, I was completely entitled to do so; I _was_ the woman that was nearly raped, after all. Still, he had agreed to my request with suspicious ease…

He walked over to the desk, draping his drenched coat over the back of the chair and placing his hat on top. His sword was placed on the table, along with his belt and holster. With one hand on the chair to keep his balance, he pulled first one boot off, then the other, and was preparing to return to the mattress when I stopped him with a:

"Surely you're not thinking of coming to bed dressed like _that,_ are you?"

He looked down at his shirt, sash, and breeches, clearly confused. "I always go to bed dressed like this," he said in bewilderment.

"But you're _wet,_" I whined.

He just looked at me, uncertain of what to make of my immaturity. "So?"

"I'll get a cold," I pouted. "As if a confusion of identity, knife wounds, attempted rape, seasickness, slave labour, sexual frustration, sponge baths—_sponge baths,_ Jack! There's no bathing water here—and overall psychological trauma wasn't bad enough, you want to give me a cold as well?"

"It's all about _you,_ isn't it?" he snapped at me.

My patience shattered. "Look, have some sympathy for me, okay? You have no idea how it feels to have almost been raped—"

He snorted rather loudly. "Oh yes, I somehow think I do!"

"Oh, get over it," I dismissed. "That was just a kiss—I mean _really_ raped, with the other person on top of you trying to get your clothes off—"

"I'd like to take this opportunity to point out a certain incident of not too long ago that involved you, me, a well-placed tackle and the floor—"

"I got off of you straight away! _And_ of my own accord!"

"No, it wasn't until Dickinson had yelled—"

"I was helping you up when that lunatic came running 'round the corner screaming about witches—" I was cut off by a sneeze, an incident which I turned to my own advantage using the following method.

"Fine," I snarled at him. "Come to bed wet."

"Thank you, I think I will." Ah, poor naïve Jack: he thought he'd won.

"I mean, seeing how I'm already sneezing, and what with the seasickness depriving me of much-needed nutrients and all and therefore leaving me with an ineffective immune system, I'll probably end up dying if you come to bed wet. _Dying,_ Jack," I repeated for emphasis whilst he gave me a very apprehensive look. "And it'll all be just because you were overcome with the sudden urge to protect your temporary virginity or chastity or whatever, which for some reason requires you to wear clothes that are drenched with cold rainwater, which would therefore _lead_ to the whole dying event, and then _you'll_ end up as the one having to watch over Pearl all the time—"

What was left of his clothing flew off in record time.

"Don't ever manipulate me again," he warned as he climbed under the covers beside me.

I smiled, pulling closer to Jack, wondering if it'll be entirely inappropriate if I was to wrap my arms around him. I decided I'd rather not risk it, and merely laid there watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.

He turned to face me, his hand resting chastely on my shoulder as he looked down at me in concern. "You're still bleeding," he stated bluntly, reaching out towards the scratch before stopping, clearly thinking better of it.

"They're shallow, they don't hurt…" I trailed off, looking up at him through a haze. I was still uncertain as to what, exactly, had happened: whatever _had_ happened, it had happened much too fast, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. But _not,_ I noticed with a suppressed smirk, light-headed enough to be incapable of the manipulation required to get the man to strip. My only regret was that he was so eager to get under the bedcovers as swiftly as he did…

…Did I really just say that?

"Jack?" I asked quietly. He nodded once, indicating his attention.

"Exactly what just—What just—" I may have been yawning at this point, but my dominant drowsiness didn't necessarily mean that I wasn't somewhat alert to the emotions that seemed to have tensed up his body… I wasn't exactly tired enough to have been unaware of his body either, come to think of it…

"Don't worry," he soothed, a finger on my lips. "You're safe now, alright? I'm here."

I nodded tiredly, my eyes closing, although a part of me realised that he seemed to be more affected by Doyle's ill-executed attack than I, the _victim,_ was. It was strange, that; almost as though _Jack_ had been the one that was nearly ravished by Doyle…

Now wasn't that a disturbing image?

But it didn't really make sense, all the same, this concern. Personally, I was more occupied with the cold method with which Jack had disposed of all future threats—at least as far as Doyle went—with such unquestionable finality than the reasoning behind it…

But I did find myself wondering if Jack had done it for Pearl, though. I didn't mean that he did it merely to protect Pearl from unnecessary grief: perhaps he was so swift with his decision because I reminded him of her, a little; people had mentioned a few times that we looked alike. And, whilst I hadn't been raped, she _had._ It would explain his indifference, if subconsciously he was thinking of protecting his own daughter.

I yawned once more, nuzzling further into Jack's shoulder. Before I had drifted off to sleep, I thought I felt him kiss me.

Of course, I could have just mistaken the wonderful dream I had that night with the fuzzy reality, so this intimate action very probably never occurred. I remembered the dream better than the night, strangely enough: in my half-languid state Jack had slipped an arm about my shoulder, kissing me gently awake at first, and then…

I'm a nymphomaniac. What do you _think_ I dreamt happened?

**-x!x-**

**AN:** I know this one was a little rushed at the beginning, but I didn't really want to risk losing more reviewers, which just shows how badly I have my priorities arranged…

**VagrantCandy:** Now that you've put it like that, it is a little hypocritical, isn't it? I was thinking that it was all to do with that "everybody has equal shares" arrangement. What caused it was partly jealousy, partly a pirate's union equal rights thing, and partly Father Dickinson…

**Anne la Jordanie:** Maybe you should just steal other people's internet connections instead, like I occasionally do. Or browse during a particularly boring ICT lesson at school. Glad to hear about that; it helps plants grow if you talk to them, you know. Keep on hugging those trees! Maybe you should just tell whoever you want to read this fic to just log on to the site; it saves time, effort, and the environment. Then everybody wins. I see I'm not alone in thinking that Sierra could have a fling with Flavio, then: imagine the trauma it'll cause to both Jack AND Sierra. Only a real man can get away with seducing a perfectly straight woman whilst clad in petticoats; he must radiate a masculine aura or something. Or use that Lynx deodorant with the half-pornographic advertising campaign. Your idea with the prostitution is interesting, to say the least, but I've come up with a way of getting him in sooner. I guess that it's been done before, but it's effective…

**Kitty-Kat26:** I'm glad to hear that you've finished your school certificate—I don't know what that is, having only been in two English-speaking countries in total and experiencing only one of the education systems, but it sounds long and laborious. I have to agree with your choice of Jack over Gibbs and Cotton; I mean yeah, so they're sexier in a more, um, OBVIOUS way, but there's just something about Jack which I can't quite pin down… What was Jack's embarrassing problem, may I ask? It sounds funny, and I like funny. Perhaps we both came up with the idea of Jack's mood swings because it fits in with his unpredictable nature or something. Sienna Miller? Well, since she's a blonde, I hadn't really thought of her, but I guess the general face shape might be right for Sierra. It's hard to compare what I've got in my head to a celebrity, as she doesn't look like anybody I'd recognise; I'd offer to draw a sketch, but I'm not exactly what would be called artistic. We'll see what Google comes up with…

**Meggie Dodge:** First of all, I'd like to thank you for your honest and balanced review. I don't get those very often, so it's quite refreshing when I do. Yes, I did do a little research when writing "Gentlemen and Rakes"—the key word there being "little"—but as the movie itself wasn't confined to one specific time period, I was a little uncertain as to when to set it; for example, if it was set in Port Royal, it'll have to be around the 1660's, yet Gov. Swann's costume was later than that, and Elizabeth and Norrington's clothing were simply mid-eighteenth century at the least. Needless to say, I got frustrated, and simply decided to abandon making it historically accurate. Then I decided to simply abandon IT, as for all of the plotlines I wanted to get down, and even with the time jumps, it was moving too slow for me.  
Anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I don't hold it against you for abandoning GAR on account of all of its anachronisms; that was probably the same reason I got so frustrated with it, although I'll be lying if I said I was an expert on ANY time period. I find "Perfect Life" easier to write for that exact reason; the protagonist would probably have the same views and reactions as any one of us randomly tossed into the past. Besides, it meant less research for me, as she probably wouldn't know what half of what she sees were, which means I can get away with describing most objects and not actually naming them. "Incapacity" will probably be the more appropriate of the two terms you chose, as I was wrote her with the intention of showing that she simply didn't understand. Come to think of it, this fic is quite inaccurate within itself, at least as far as the characters are concerned. Father Dickinson isn't exactly what you'd call realistic. Then again, it's based on a Disney movie; what can you do?  
Anamaria was quite a challenge to write; making your original characters likeable is one thing, but attempting to keep a little-seen canon character IN character is quite another. I thought that aloe vera was pushing it a little, but what I got from the two times she chose to slap Jack as opposed to say, breaking his nose with a well-placed punch, which she appears to be more than capable of, was that she was actually somewhat feminine beneath her pirate bravado. But then again, I do have a habit of reading a little too deeply into what are very probably insignificant actions. Anyway, as I said, thanks for your review!


	29. Discussions Of A Delicate Nature

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Twenty-Eight:** Discussions Of A Delicate Nature_

The first thing I was aware of when I'd awoke the next morning was the raging storm outside: the crashing roar of thunder and the wretched howling of the wind. I groaned into the pillow, burrowing further into the mattress. It wasn't cold, but it was my natural reaction to the wailing gale.

"Ah, so there is life after all," a bemused voice murmured from somewhere to the foot of the bed. I grunted in response, making him chuckle. I heard the scraping of the chair, followed by the creaking of the floorboards as he moved towards me. There was a tugging on the blanket, and I furrowed my brow, curling tighter into a ball. I couldn't help the shiver of fear that went through me as Jack placed a hand on my back, and I didn't know why I'd reacted that way.

"Are you just going to stay there all day then?"

I yawned, pulling the cover up and over my head in response.

"I'll take that as a 'no' then."

Without warning, the blanket was ripped away from me, making me squeak with indignation. As I said before, it was impossible to be cold in the Caribbean, but without the coverlet, I noticed a definite drop in the room temperature.

The bed creaked as he sat on the mattress, and I felt it again: that strange, irrational jolt of fear that coursed through my every vein, causing my body to involuntarily shudder.

"I want my blanket back…" I croaked sleepily, hugging the other pillow tightly to my chest.

"You sound suspiciously like my daughter," Jack's voice observed thoughtfully whilst his hand wrapped about my waist. I noticeably flinched at the contact, and he stiffened at my reaction.

"How are you?" he asked, moving his warm palm away. I sighed at the loss of contact, burying my face further into the pillow, knowing my quivering was the culprit.

"I'm fine," I murmured groggily, yawning yet again. His finger marked a trail across my cheek, and if I'd had jumped any higher I'd very probably have hit the ceiling.

"No, you're not," he stated. He turned me onto my back, ignoring my grunts of protests, and happily pried the pillow that was the substitute for my suddenly longed-for teddy bears, Bubbles and Fluffy, with apparently few qualms.

Yes, I did have soft toys in my own time when I was well into my twenties. But not anymore. And Fluffy and Bubbles are respectively _sheep_ and _fish_ as opposed to _bears,_ I'll have you know.

I groaned yet again, reaching out for the sheep/fish alternative and coming into contact with an elbow instead. Odd, how I wasn't quaking in fear when _I_ touched _him._ Then again, he _was_ normally the one that felt threatened by my advances. It was a strange, twisted world I was in.

The elbow twitched slightly, and then a hand was on my waist, joined shortly by the other, and I jerked yet again. He'll probably start to think I suffered from an abnormal epilepsy triggered by his touch if I did much more flinching.

He pulled me towards him, his arms wrapping tightly around my back, and lowered my head onto his shoulder. His body was so warm… I immediately nestled further into his embrace, sighing in contentment at finding something vaguely resembling a radiator. His hand stole up my spine, rubbing my shoulder blade in a comforting manner, and he murmured what I assumed were words of comfort in my ear. I smiled at his kindness, kissing his shoulder as a way of expressing my gratitude.

"Jack?" I asked him quietly. He nodded in response, his fingers now lazily tracing circles on my back. "Was what Doyle said true?" I knew I'd asked before, but I just had to know. Doyle was dead now; Doyle wasn't a threat anymore. But the rest of the crew were still alive, and even if they weren't a threat, they all possessed the potential for becoming a… a…

I just had to know the risk.

Jack understood my rather cryptic query. "Yes," he murmured honestly. "But in death Doyle's been set as an example—found a use for him at last." He pulled away, but only a little, looking concernedly into my face. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked again.

I smiled at him, a little twitching of the lips that very probably didn't count as a smile by average standards. But then again, this wasn't an average situation, so perhaps Jack did recognise it as an expression of… joy, if I was capable of feeling such emotions in my current jumpy state. "_Yes,_" I said to him.

He kissed me then, very gently, his hands pulling me completely into his lap. "I don't want you staying here," he whispered softly against my lips. "Not that I think any of the crew will try anything—they're good men, Sierra, good, mostly God-fearing men, with the ironic exception of Father Dickinson, who thinks that Satan is real whereas God is an illusion—you've my word they won't lay a hand on you." He paused. "Except perhaps for Father Dickinson, who's just in a league all his own, but I think it'll be a pathetic attempt at exorcism rather than attempted rape."

I chuckled a little, which, judging from his small smile, seemed to have been his intention. "What does Father Dickinson have to say about—about all of… _this?_"

"He claims that Doyle was a miscreant slave of the Devil—he still professes an unfounded strong hatred of you, darling, but when it really comes down to it, I'd wager he's in love with you."

I choked back a snigger. "He's in _what_ with me?"

"He loves you," Jack insisted, eyes widened in innocence as he nodded, pressing his cheek against mine as he continued to speak into my ear. "Don't you think it a little odd that he always appear just as we're about to—" He paused, clearing his throat.

"Kiss?" I supplied.

"Any sort of intimate action," he agreed.

"I just thought he had really bad timing—bad for me, but good for him."

"Oh no, he's in love with you. And in lust, come to think of it—"

"In _lust?_"

"Aye, in lust."

"But—But he's a _priest!_"

"He _was_ a priest," Jack corrected. "But after he was denounced from the Church of England, he came across the ingenious idea of saving the souls of rapscallions such as myself. And our women," he added thoughtfully as he continued to murmur into my ear.

"Am I your woman then?" I asked, speaking as softly as I could in the hopes that, by some miracle, he would be unable to here my query. He didn't react at all, his hand still tracing patterns on my back, and I mentally breathed out a sigh of relief. I didn't actually want to know; I didn't want to hear him lie and answer in the affirmative, simply because he pitied me after the whole incident with Doyle, or worse, hear the truth, that I was just a whore whom his daughter had smuggled onto his ship.

"Dickinson believes that all women he considers to be beautiful are the subjects of Lucifer," Jack continued. "He believes that any female able to send him panting into heat is an unholy concubine. He believes you're a succubus here to steal my soul and lead this crew into the deepest abyss, where your cannibalistic siren sisters hungrily await. He believes you're actually a withered crone with a decaying face but nevertheless disguise your true form by cunning spells and enchantments; he fancies you a witch and enchantress, you know. He believes you tempted Jesus, did you know that? And he believes it was you that misled Judas Iscariot—You really should drop in on his masses some time, they're exclusively about you and your corruption."

"You allow Sunday church services on your ship?" I asked in bemusement.

He shrugged in my arms. "For the entertainment value more than anything else," he replied. "I'm not a practising Christian, and certainly not a Protestant one at that."

I laughed quietly, catching his lips in a quick peck that had the pleasantly surprising effect of making his eyes widen before smiling. "So the entire crew are only listening to all of this… preaching simply to humour Dickinson?"

"Of course not," he replied. "Did I not just say my crew is comprised of an alarming percentage of God-fearing men?"

I lowered my eyebrows. "I didn't know that religion counted for so much in…" I stopped. I was going to say something along the lines of 'in this era', and that just wouldn't do, would it?

"It does count for quite a lot, much to my perplexity," Jack informed me, apparently unaware of my sudden hesitation. "Even people whom you certainly wouldn't expect of, like, well, pirates and whores. Even Beth wouldn't—" And he paused, clearly unwilling to continue. It was his turn to look away now, but it was too late; it was obvious to me that Jack's acknowledgement of his daughter didn't exclusively stem from paternal sentiments alone. I always suspected that Beth was a part of the reason, but it was a depressing thought that I didn't dwell on.

Well, she must've been married by now. He really should get over it.

"Where's Pearl?" I asked, changing the uncomfortable subject. "She must be so upset by what happened—I mean, what might've happened—not that I think that she's—that I'm…"

Jack's grip on my body was firm as he refused to permit my escape. I felt anger coursing through me; he was in love with _Beth,_ not me. That much was obvious. So he had no right to hold me like… like _this._ He just couldn't have the _both_ of us; he certainly couldn't have me at any rate, even without the knowledge of Beth's hold upon him.

"Jack…" I pleaded through gritted teeth, unwilling to allow my resentment to creep into my voice.

"She's asleep in my cabin," he soothed. "Don't worry about her, she—"

"_Alone?_" I interjected. "Jack, is she alone up there?"

"Of course not, she's with Gibbs, who's very probably awake—"

"I want to see her," I insisted.

"It's not fair on Pearl to wake her—"

"I don't want to wake her up, Jack," I explained exasperatedly. "I just want to see that she's—"

"And it's not fair on you to go up into the rain either," Jack said resolutely. "What's wrong with staying here with me?"

"You're not as cute and pretty as Pearl is," I pointed out.

"Yes, I am!" Jack instinctively snapped before furrowing his brow as he reconsidered his rather spontaneous and unintentional declaration. "Sierra, when Pearl wakes up, Gibbs will bring her straight down here, alright? You've my word on that."

"But I want to see her _now,_" I pressed. "Why'd you keep her away from me anyway? I really need her—and her cute little complaints and mannerisms—I've been deprived of her little pearls of wisdom, if you'd forgive that horrible unintended pun…"

His fist seemed to tighten on my nightdress, as though angered that I'd considered an eight-year-old's wisdom far outstripped his own. "She's _fine,_" he said shortly. "Do you think I'll let anything happen to my own daughter? Besides," he continued, his tone rather distant, "would it really be so terrible to spend one day in my company alone?"

I blinked, looking up at his inexpressive gaze. What was he getting at?

"I didn't mean to offend you, Jack," I murmured quietly. "I just miss Pearl, even though it's only been one night…"

"Well, that's very sweet of you," he acknowledged, his tone less than pleased that it was the daughter I was so desperate to spend time with rather than him. "How very moving, wishing to reassure yourself of a child's emotional state rather than examining your own; touchingly—" And he stopped, looking at me closely, eyes narrowed in suspicion as he examined my body rather than my face attentively.

"Touchingly what?" I asked, bewildered.

"…Touchingly maternal," he completed after a long pause that suggested he knew, or thought he knew, something that I didn't.

I shrugged uncomfortably. "She… She says that she sees me as a mother—a mother figure…" I imparted uneasily, not exactly relaxed by his searching gaze.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, does she now?"

"Yeah, but I… Well, I'm a little young to be anybody's mother, really…"

He snorted. "No, you're not," he waved away. "My own ma gave birth to her first child when she was barely sixteen."

"Well, that would've been the age I was when Pearl was born!"

"My point exactly." And then he said, rather abruptly:

"Do you want children, Sierra?"

My eyes widened in confusion. "What? _No!_ Of course not! I hate the little brats! They're small and drool and are always jumping on you, general nuisances… With the exception of Pearl," I added hastily on catching his gaze. "Pearl's adorability far outweighs her very, very, _very_ few negative characteristics."

"Are you sure? I thought they were somewhat balanced."

"Ah, that's where you're wrong: her lovability is unprecedented." I wasn't certain if praising his daughter would be the best course of action, as I'd always suspected he was faintly resentful of the swift, easy bond between Pearl and I. "She's very charming," I said to him. "Pretty as a doll, if not as innocent…"

His face seemed to darken, and I wondered if I'd somehow offended him. But when he spoke, I understood his sombre mood.

"She is, isn't she?" He agreed, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Too beautiful for her own good, just like her mother…"

His fist tightened on the material of my skirt; I felt his fingers clenching against my leg. My hand fell upon his own, trembling with anger, my thumb stroking his skin.

"This is the first time I've heard you talk about it," I said quietly to him. "What happened to Pearl, I mean. You can't let it affect you like this, Jack."

"I know that!" he snapped at me over the howling of the wind, causing me to start yet again. "But it shouldn't have happened, not to a child… And you—It shouldn't have happened to you either…"

"You _saved_ me from Doyle, Jack," I pointed out, worried he'll burst into tears and confess his childhood secrets, his dreams and ambitions, before recruiting me onto his worldwide anti-rape campaign, and that would all be a little overwhelming, to say the least, not to mention embarrassing for the both of us.

"But can you honestly tell me you've not been taken advantage of before?"

I felt my heart freezing. "What—What makes you think that?"

His eyes might mine unflinchingly. "You just seemed to understand everything Pearl went through a little too well, according to her God-honest account," he explained. "I'm sure your own personal affection assisted immensely, but it was the way you did it—how you talked to her, what you said to her, how you said it, how you—"

"How would you know what I said and how I said it!" I snapped at him, my temper flaring at his probing. "You weren't there!"

"What, you think my daughter hadn't noticed how you'll sometimes come back late at night with a bruise on your neck or a cut on your lip?" he threw at me. If I wasn't so unsettled, I'd have paid more heed to the gentle sympathy in his voice, the quiet compassion in his eyes. "Did you really think she was deaf to your tears, however late you waited to shed them? Did you think she hadn't overheard discussions between whores about how some men took perverse pleasure in forcing a woman, whether she was obliging or no?"

"Well, I—yes, I supposed I had—_cried_—a few times—it's hard for a woman—any woman—to accept that she's a lowly prostitute… And I suppose I—I _did_ get hurt, but—but that doesn't mean—some men don't know their own strength, it—it doesn't mean I was a—a victim…" I stuttered ramblingly.

He brought a finger to my lips, silencing my irregular speech. "There's more," he stated once he was certain my breathing was somewhat steady. "You had a nightmare last night."

"I don't remember." I stated flatly.

"Someone called David…" he trailed off meaningfully.

"I don't _know_ any Davids!" I defensively snapped. "Do you?"

He just shrugged. "Look, it's perfectly acceptable for you to be a little upset—"

"Jack, why can't you just accept the fact that I'm an unrapeable?"

"Yes, I can understand your anger—You're a—I'm sorry, _what?_"

"An unrapeable," I repeated exasperatedly. "One that cannot be raped."

He was looking worriedly at me. "Is that even a word?"

"I've said it twice already; it must be." He was still staring at me, clearly more than a little dumbfounded at my flippant manner and coining of words. "Un-rape-able," I repeated slowly.

Jack had found his voice at last. "Well if that's the case, then it appears that Doyle had very nearly accomplished a rather prestigious achievement," he commented, clearly still a little flabbergasted at my lack of tears and wails.

"That's because he was too shy to ask," I dismissed with a wave of my hand.

"You would've _agreed?_ With _Doyle?_"

"Alright, so he's not the most attractive of men, but—"

"_Doyle?_"

"—it'll be a lot less painful for me if I'd said 'yes' though, so I would've said 'yes' and then tried to think of something pleasant," I continued, ignoring his interruption.

"_Doyle?_" he continued to ask for confirmation, brown eyes comically widened.

"And it doesn't actually matter about physical appearance, not really, so the fact he was extremely repulsive was more a—a colossal hindrance than it was, say an unconquerable impediment," I elaborated. "Yes, Jack, even Doyle," I added as he opened his mouth.

His jaw snapped shut, and he was looking at me with a noticeably void expression that was a little discomforting.

"Perhaps I _should_ just share you out around the crew," he said at last as the silence reached its most awkward moment.

My palm stung as it connected with his cheekbone. "What kind of loose, wanton _slut_ do you take me for?" I hissed furiously at him as Jack yelped.

The captain threw his hands up in despair. "Why? Why? _Why?_" he implored. "Why do I even bother? Everything time I try to—to _comfort_ you, to help you, to explain the workings of the male mind, you hit me!"

"You insulted me," I insisted. "It's not very polite—"

"You brought it upon yourself!"

"Jack, that's completely off the point," I dismissed. "And besides, I've only hit you today—"

"_And_ yesterday!" he reminded. "Threatened me with an extremely heavy kitchen utensil as well, come to think of it—"

"It was only a frying pan, it can't do a lot of damage—"

"Of course it can!"

"Oh, how so?"

"It's a _frying pan!_ It's big and round and made of metal. Do you realise how many lethal medieval weapons fit that description? The noble frying pan," he concluded solemnly, "is the cook's last defence against—"

"Is Anamaria anywhere near?" I interrupted.

He paused mid-tirade, looking at me suspiciously. "First Pearl, now Anamaria, eh?" he murmured, catching my chin and drawing up my gaze to meet his. "Why do I have the sudden feeling that you're attempting to avoid me?"

"I'm sorry, Jack," I apologised sincerely. "I just don't really feel like being around anything that's an owner of male genitalia today, and that, as luck so has it, includes you."

"Oh, so I'm a 'thing' now?" he complained in a distinctly feminine manner.

"You're a man," I explained patiently. "You don't honestly expect me to think of men as living, breathing, _thinking_ human beings, do you?"

His response was to give me an extremely odd look. "I'm starting to think that Anamaria's been a bad influence on you…"

"Oh no, not at all, I've always despised the opposite sex," I waved away.

"Sierra, after everything last night, do you honestly not trust me enough to even spend twenty-four hours alone with me in this cabin?"

"Of course I do, Jack," I replied. "It's just I don't really feel like spending a whole day in bed with you right now."

He visibly flinched. "You must've been very upset by last night…"

"I'm not upset!" I told him once again. "God, Jack, I know I should be, I know I should be a _little_ concerned by the fact that I'm floating in the middle of the ocean with a group of sexually-frustrated and largely unattractive men, but I'm not, alright! I'm not upset, I won't break down into a sobbing wreck, I won't jump at hearing distant voices or footsteps, I won't suspect every man of attempting to hurt me, so why not just drop it?"

His reply was to look mockingly into my eyes, silently saying once again that he knew something I was not yet aware of. Further enraged by his ridiculing eyes, I twisted myself out of his arms, glaring furiously at him when I'd reached the other side of the mattress, my legs drawn up as I glared furiously at him. "And I won't need you cuddling and coddling me like a child, either. Why don't you save your affection for someone who actually wants it, like Pearl? Lord knows she's been starved of it."

Jack's laughing eyes immediately hardened as he continued to look at me. "What makes you think I'm _not_ fond of my daughter?"

"I think you don't _show_ it," I explained as I gathered messily discarded clothing from the day before and began to dress. "She wants someone to dote and fawn over her—why else do you think she's grown so fond of me so quickly?"

He was silent as he watched me struggling to lace up the stay, my shaking fingers allowing the thin cords to slip through my fingers. "Would you like me to help you with that—"

"Didn't I just tell you that I don't want your bloody pity?" I snapped, succeeding in pulling the lace through the small holes at the very top.

"Sierra, it would appear that you are in a state of minor irritation—"

"Shut up!" I snapped at him. "Didn't I just tell you that—" And suddenly, for reasons completely unbeknownst to either of us, I burst into tears, covering my face as my shoulders wracked with badly-repressed sobs.

"…Uh… Will I be reprimanded if I was to extend the invitation of a sympathetic embrace?"

"…I don't even know what you just said…" I sniffled, wiping at my eyes and looking at his anxious face. "But I feel better now…" And just like that, my weeping had stopped, and I had all but fallen into his arms.

He appeared to be a little disconcerted by my sudden changes of mood. "Um… There, there," he awkwardly comforted with a self-conscious pat on the back. I heard him mutter to himself, "Unpredictable and volatile mood swings, an unmistakable sign…"

"An unmistakable sign of what?" I asked dejectedly.

"Of nothing! Nothing, nothing, nothing at all, no circumstance of particular consequence, no forthcoming event that will change our lives forever, no little parasitic bastard preying on our patience—nothing at all!"

From his lengthy lack of elaboration, it appeared that there was an unmistakable sign of _something_ after all.

"An unmistakable sign of _what,_ Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Just 'Jack', if you'd be so accommodating—"

"An unmistakable sign of _what,_ Jack?" I repeated.

There was a pause in which the storm once again made its presence known by allowing a roar of thunder to echo across the sky.

"Come to think of it, 'Captain Jack Sparrow' has an altogether more—"

"Jack, just answer the question, please."

He hesitated. "Well… I'd only ever had experience of one woman during this no doubt taxing stage, but…"

"_Jack…_"

"Well, unpredictable and volatile mood swings such as yours—which have not, in any way, deducted from your charm—tends to be associated with—with—" He audibly gulped.

"A woman's time of month?" I'd guessed.

"Or, in some cases, conspicuous lack thereof," he agreed, clearly a little ill at ease with the personal subject matter breached.

I patted his shoulder comfortingly. "Aw, aren't you adorable?" I cooed. "I think I will stay with you today. It'll be very amusing, if nothing else."

He let out a frustrated sigh. "Case in point," he exclaimed, releasing my body only to gesture helplessly at it.

"No, you're right," I sighed. "I was a little… emotional just now. Then again, I'll be getting my—well, you know—in a couple of days…"

He pulled away, studying my face closely.

"Yes, I sincerely hope that _that's_ the cause of your rather fickle disposition of late," he enigmatically agreed. "Or Doyle, or a combination of the two, and not what I suspect…"

When I enquired as to the nature of his suspicion, he flatly refused to answer, saying that he'll only tell me if it was true, and only then if I hadn't figured out his perception of the situation that he refused to name all by myself. If the situation was not as he'd thought, and I hadn't guessed his notion, he just won't mention it at all, and my curiosity will never be satisfied. Frustrated at his skilful evasion of my questioning, I gave him a rather spontaneous slap before immediately regretting my action, cooing over the injured cheek.

After this and a few more similar incidents, we finally came to the agreement to drop the subject altogether and just talk of more pleasant affairs; which, in Jack's language, meant that he simply related a few of his grander adventures whilst I sat curled on his lap listening avidly to his questionable tales. After the overwhelming incidents that had transpired the previous day, I found that I much preferred the incredible events that mostly made up Jack's repertoire of 'God-honest' escapades than I did experiencing my own.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Well, wasn't that a rather long chapter dealing with absolutely nothing of particular significance? And as I have been officially forbidden by the omnipotent site admin to responding to reviews within chapters, I have decided to post replies to anonymous reviews on my profile page, for future reference. I should have already responded to all signed reviews by now; if not, I'll get round to it sometime.


	30. The Compass Rose

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Twenty-Nine:** The Compass Rose_

"It is _not_ a flower," Jack insisted, pulling the blanket up to his chin and glaring at me, brow furrowed in a hurt expression.

"Of course it is, albeit an extremely spiky one, I'll show you—look, there's no point having you shirtless if you're going to just _hide_ under the covers like that—"

"I'll be hiding under these covers in this exact manner until you admit that it is not of the floral nature—don't _do_ that!" he yelped as I attempted to crawl under the coverlet in my quest to point out that his tattoo _was,_ in fact, of the floral nature.

I tilted my head in confusion, unable to stop myself from smirking. "Jack, there's nothing under there that I haven't seen before, and with better lighting too. You're being ridiculously immature."

"No, I'm not," he insisted, scowling in a childish manner and firmly crossing his arms over the mantle. He refused to budge when I'd attempted to pry the material away from him.

"Oh, so I'm not allowed to get under the covers with you either? That's not fair—I promise I won't look," I said in my most innocent manner, eyes widened to emphasise the point.

"Won't look at _what?_" he cut through with a raised eyebrow.

I batted my lashes ingenuously. "I've no idea _what_ you're implying," I replied, repositioning myself so that I was lying beside him with an arm and leg flung across his body, head resting on the chest with the flower tattoo, my fingers teasing the hem of the blanket. "Go on, let me have a corner—an _inch…_ Please?"

"I don't trust you," he replied, looking down at me in amusement.

"But Jack, I'm cold…" I whined.

He very understandably snorted, responding by pulling the blanket tighter about himself. Pouting, I retaliated by twirling the two braids dangling from his chin about my fingers, nibbling on his neck.

"Stop that," he reprimanded half-laughingly, his hand creating an unwelcome barricade between my teeth and his skin. So I nipped his fingers instead, refusing to be deterred.

"Alright, you can have the bloody blanket!" And without another word, he'd rolled over with such swift skill that I was on my back with his body resting comfortably upon my own before I could even blink. As he had promised, I was now the one modestly covered, and naturally, I took immediate advantage of his lack of clothing:

"That _is_ a flower!" I proclaimed gleefully, my hand resting on the black-inked blossom.

"It is not!"

"Well, what is it, then?"

"It's a Rose!" he explained triumphantly.

There was an uncertain pause in which I stared at his victoriously grinning features. "That _is_ still a flower, you know…"

"It's a Compass Rose," he explained, his hand going to rest on my wrist, guiding my fingers over the elaborately overlapping lines decorating his bronze skin. "Like the ones in the corners of maps, know what I mean? Here, I'll show you…"

He gently shifted off of me, rolling to the side of the bed, and made his way to the desk where several documents and a few books were stashed.

"You've really made yourself at home, haven't you?" I asked with a raised eyebrow.

"I had to keep all corrupting material away from the All-Reading One," he gravely replied, flicking through a wad of papers.

I squinted over his shoulder at a familiar-looking volume. "I see that you've the sense to bring your _Whoremonger's Guide,_" I noted cheerfully.

He whirled around on the spot, clutching the yellowing manuscripts defensively to his bare chest. Whether he was attempting to cover up his rose tattoo or his blatant state of, um, undress, I'll never know.

"It _is not_ mine!" he snapped. "How many times must I repeat myself to you?"

"Until you actually admit that it's yours?" I volunteered, my eyes roving his arms. "Don't glare at me like that, sweetie. _Look,_ there's no shame in having a healthy interest in sex, Jack, especially when you're usually stuck at sea for months on end with no women and old, greying, wrinkling, dying, unhygienic—"

"It's lovely to hear your true opinion of all us feeble old wrinkling men," Jack cut across, his very face a mask of pain. Following my roving gaze, he looked self-consciously down at himself. "I'm not actually _dying,_ am I?"

I shrugged. "You very probably are. We all are, actually; the end of each passing day is merely a landmark—time-mark, rather—a deduction of another wasted twenty-four hours as each setting sun brings us ever closer to our eventual cessation of existence—"

"Are you _deliberately_ trying to lower my feelings of self-worth?" he asked with a yawn, not-so-subtly tucking the incriminating _Whoremonger's Guide To London_ behind a small pile of supposedly less offensive volumes.

"Not at all, precious, no," I reassured, my hand flying to my heart.

He wrinkled his nose. "'_Precious'?_" he spat at me in disgust. "Why _precious?_"

I raised my eyebrow. "Would you prefer 'sugarplum'?"

He tilted his head, considering the alternative possibilities. "Why can't you just call me 'Jack'?"

I rolled my eyes. "I'm trying to disarm you," I sighed. "An affectionate term of endearment is one of the most basic techniques."

"'Precious' isn't a term of endearment," he pointed out, moving back to the bed and sitting on the corner of the mattress, flattening out the parchment over the bedspread. "It's an adjective reserved for the exclusive usage of pastel-clothed fops and their wig collections."

I snorted, a hand going to cover my mouth in delight. "What have you brought for my leisurely perusal then?" I enquired as I curiously leaned over the gently-crackling maps and miscellaneous texts.

"Well, _this_" he pointed to the central atlas "is just a detailed map of Jamaica—an island currently of little consequence for the near future, admittedly, but it also has _this._" And he pointed at a multi-spiked star encircled in thicker black ink. At my completely perplexed look he elaborated. "It's a Compass Rose, love," he began, finger slowly tracing each and every one of the flower/star's spikes. "Thirty-two points on the map to match the thirty-two points of the compass…" And he placed a small weathered square in the very centre of Jamaica, flicking the lid open.

"So that's your compass?" I asked, my hand hovering over the needle.

"Aye, one of my dearest and closest companions," he noted.

I narrowed my eyes. "It's broken."

He raised his eyebrows. "Now, what makes you say that?"

"Well, is it meant to be like that?"

"Like what?" he said, tilting his head the better to look at the small tool so vital to his navigations.

"Spinning around and changing directions and… I mean, isn't it meant to point due north at all times?"

He nodded. "Aye, most compasses are designed to guide a traveller nowhere else but up. Why'd you ask?"

"Well, I'm wondering why you'll keep it if it's broken. I mean, isn't it useless to you like this?"

"Most of the time," he admitted, studying my face intently.

"So why do you keep it then? Sentimental value or something?"

He just shrugged. "You could say that," he agreed enigmatically, and I rolled my eyes, shutting the lid again. The compass had obviously been demagnetised at some point in Jack's illustrious career; perhaps it was the first compass he'd received as a sailor from a captain that no longer had any use for it; perhaps it was the first compass he'd possessed as captain—something highly maudlin and therefore mortifying, I'd no doubt.

Leaning forwards, I flicked a particularly long dreadlock over his bare shoulder, studying the inked lines once again. "Alright, I _can_ see a definite resemblance, but I've still gotta admit, Jack, yours does look more like an _actual_ rose; you know, the kind that grows in the garden, which are handpicked and wrapped up and sent to women that you are completely infatuated with—With _really_ sharp thorns," I added on seeing his expression twisting into one of extreme indignation in an attempt to pacify him.

He blinked. "Did you just accuse me of being utterly enamoured with extremely sharp rose stems?" he enquired.

I shrugged. "I don't actually know… But this is a tedious and meaningless discussion, in any case." I eagerly leaned closer, peering at what Jack _claimed_ was a Compass Rose. It looked even more like a flower at closer range, although I now noticed a flawless symmetry in the arrangement of what I had assumed were the petals. "Do you have any more of these exquisite works of art hidden from the rest of the world?" I asked him in genuine curiosity.

He nodded, holding out his arm in a wordless gesture that spoke only of his patience at having his body temporarily hijacked to serve the purpose of an art gallery. One that allowed unrestricted poking at the exhibits, that is. "I'm surprised you haven't noticed it before," he remarked. "You've ripped my bloody buttons off enough times…"

"That was only once," I corrected heatedly. "An occasion which I apparently will never ever experience again." I couldn't help but allow bitterness to creep into my voice. "And it wasn't _all_ of them either; only the last two—three… five…" I corrected sheepishly.

"Try eight," he helpfully supplied, watching as I ran my fingers across the 'P' burnt upon the skin of his wrist. "But why haven't you noticed any of it before?" he repeated in genuine curiosity, and I had the slightest impression that I'd offended him.

I shrugged, examining the tiny but detailed image above the brand of a little bird that I took to be a sparrow flying over the circle of the sun as it gracefully sank into the waves.

"I guess I just don't really pay attention to my play—my lovers' bodies in general."

"Why not?"

"'Cause they're usually a turn-off," I explained quite shamelessly.

Jack actually sputtered, which, considering how he wasn't drinking anything, was rather odd. "Come again?"

"I just find men's bodies—alright, so I just find men in general—to be fairly unattractive."

Jack merely stared at me as I looked up at him. "Mind if I lie down here?" I gestured at his lap, twisting my body and settling my skull onto his knee without waiting for an answer so that I was looking into his eyes upside down. He looked much more adorable from an inverted angle, anyway, especially as he was leaning forward a little to stare incredulously into my eyes in the manner he was.

"In what ways do we not meet your indubitably high standards of attractiveness?"

"_Well_—you're—_men,_" I groped helplessly.

"Yes, I guessed that much."

"You're all hairy and sweaty and absolutely filthy, you smell like pigs, there's dirt under your fingernails, your toenails are disgustingly overgrown, and a large majority of you are either overweight, underweight, or have really obvious tan lines…" I frowned. "Except you—do you sunbathe naked, by any chance?"

Jack's expression had gone from surprised to disbelieving to insulted during my short-lived tirade, and was now currently hovering between horrified and humiliated. "How did you—no!"

"How'd I know? Well, for a start your—"

"No, I said 'no'—I do not sunbathe naked." He appeared to be having a hard time convincing even himself of the fact.

"Oh, that's such a pity," I told him sincerely, closing my eyes and tilting my head back further into his lap. "'Cause I do, and it gets pretty lonely all by myself, you know, just me and the sky and nothing in between…" That was a lie, as I'd never saw the point in pursuing the golden glow of bronzed skin—I was seductive enough as it was, thanks very much. Still, it was nice to feel him struggling in discomfort beneath my head.

"If you find us all so unattractively repulsive, why do you insist on bedding us?" he said after a pause, clearly still in extreme denial of his narcissism.

My eye lazily slid open. "Working at the Garter… Not being able to choose who I… Well, I had to learn to block out the unpleasant things in that line of work, didn't I? Wouldn't you? And that more often than not included the men I… was with. But growing up in my family, I'd already trained my mind to block out all the things that upset me—"

"Ah, so that's why you don't recall sneaking back to your room in tears after being held down and beaten—"

"Jack, honey, I _like_ that sort of thing—as long as there's no pain involved," I good-naturedly enlightened. "And even if I didn't, I don't think I'll be crying over a little _spanking._ They weren't allowed to bruise us or mark us, anyway; brought our value down, stuff like that. No one likes paying the full price for damaged goods," I muttered this last to myself.

His hands were on my cheeks, gently pulling my head up, and I felt myself flushing at my own stupidity; of course he was going to hear me, close as he was. Judging from the dark emotion in his eyes, I had a distinct sense of foreboding. So before he could ask, I naturally blurted out,

"You're really, _really_ cute, you know that?"

He blinked, once again completely thrown off course by my big mouth. "Come again?" he queried for what I could safely assume were verification purposes.

I wrinkled my nose, tilting my head ever so slightly as I studied his features. "Well, I mean, you're absolutely adorable—in the most masculine, threatening, piratical, licentious, depraved, and impious sense of the word." I frowned. "Did I get everything there?"

He shrugged. "You forgot 'dangerous' and 'notorious'," he suggested, looking hopefully at me in a way that all too readily confirmed my accusation of his being 'cute'.

"Yeah, well… But you _are,_" I said at Jack's crestfallen expression. "Oh God, you're like a little girl—boy! _Boy!_ A little five-year-old boy… Who's ready to skin me alive for forgetting his sex in a vicious and undoubtedly masculine manner…" I giggled nervously as he continued to glare at me, hesitantly reaching up to fiddle with the braids dangling from his chin. He shook his head, eyes narrowed in a very infantile manner.

"I am _not_ 'cute', as you call it," he said stiffly.

"Aw, you can't pout and say that like you mean it, babe," I enlightened him.

He shook his head in despair. "Your distressingly maternal point of view is starting to irritate me."

Distressingly maternal point of…? I narrowed my eyes. "What do you mean by that foul word, 'maternal'?" I asked of him. "If I didn't know better, I'd have been inclined to believe that you supposed I was impregnated and currently carrying your spawn, but we both know _that's_ never gonna happen…"

"You seem so confident of the fact," he approved.

I sighed. "Jack, the reason I'm acting all maternal around you is because I've gotten so used to acting all maternal around Pearl," I explained, if I really was capable of maternal behaviour. "Besides, I know for a fact that I'm physically incapable of bearing a child."

"Oh, really?" he questioned, eyebrow quirked. "And why is that, love?"

"Well, the fact that I'm barren probably has something to do with it," I dropped in casually.

He now exchanged the sputtering of earlier for the unmistakable sound of choking, looking down at me in what I could only describe as a curious fusion of horror and hope. "How can you be so sure?"

I shrugged, my eyes never leaving his as I answered. "My elder sister used to be completely infatuated with this man who was about fifteen years her senior, a few years back. It was a very serious relationship, and although they weren't married, they were engaged. They'd decided that they'd like their own little brats, but after about a year of trying, Chris—my sister—finally decided to pay a visit to a doctor and see if everything was, you know… normal…" I said for want of a better term.

"And it wasn't?" he'd guessed, and I shook my head before continuing with my narrative.

"And then, well, I was dragged in—pushed in, actually, kicking and screaming all the way—and it turned out that we'd both inherited a geneti—a trait," I quickly corrected, doubtful that such terms had even been coined in this little spot of history. "A trait from our grandmother on our father's side… She'd only had one child, you see, and she wanted more, and it turned out that she was… Well, um, my father… He shouldn't have even been conceived…"

Jack was silent, and I took the opportunity to pray to some higher being that he wouldn't ask about how the doctor knew for sure and what tests were administered, because frankly it was not within my capacity, knowledge, nor patience to explain such procedures, nor the evolution of the medical and technological industries. Naturally, I didn't mention anything about artificial insemination or IVF treatment either.

"Well," he said at last, breaking into my whirring thoughts of paranoia, "this certainly explains your attachment to Pearl."

I just shrugged. "I'm not my sister; I never wanted kids to begin with. Quite frankly, I think I'm blessed; I can sleep around without fearing the consequences…" Unless you counted venereal diseases, but I preferred not to think about that: it just ruined the utter magic, not only of sleeping around, but intercourse in general.

I smiled at his face twitching above me, able to read his inner battle quite clearly. On the one hand, he was extremely relieved that he wouldn't be burdened with another Pearl, if you _could_ call her a burden. On the other, he wanted to express his nonexistent pity for my wretched state. "Jack, you can smile, you know. And laugh, and do whatever else it is you blokes do when happy…"

Judging from his next action, another ritual the male species performed when notified of advantageous information such as how the woman that was more than willing to bed them was not only unwilling to bear their undesired offspring, but unable to do so, was to lean down and kiss the bearer of good news. With tongue, if you want details.

"I take it you're pleased?" I giggled when he'd eventually pulled away.

He smirked impishly, pulling me towards him into a sitting position before dragging me completely into his lap, nipping my neck affectionately. Before he could get any further, however, there was an unmistakable knocking upon the door, followed shortly by Gibbs' voice announcing the presence of the "little one."

Jack and I both froze, meeting each other's gaze. I could quite plainly see that he was as reluctant as I was to allow Pearl access; three weeks appeared to have tested his resolve as much as it had my own. (Except I didn't have any resolve to begin with, but let's overlook that minor and rather insignificant detail, shall we?)

"I can say that you need your rest, having cried in my arms for half the night," Jack suggested huskily.

"This _is_ her room, Jack," I glumly reminded, staring forlornly down at the mattress. My eyes widened, and I started in horror and disgust.

"What's the matter?"

"Jack," I said, turning back to look at him, "this is her _bed…_"

He gave me a look of utter incomprehension.

"We _can't_ on her bed," I explained hurriedly as Gibbs' voice hesitantly enquired for Jack.

"Why not?"

"Because—it's _Pearl's._ It's just… It doesn't feel right…"

Jack threw his hands up in disgust. "I, for one, think it utterly despicable how Pearl's corrupted so much of your soul in such a short period of time: She's given you _morals,_ for God's sake…"

"Captain?" Gibbs asked yet again. "Miss Sierra?" I next heard him say in decidedly quieter tone, "Perhaps now ain't such a good time to be a-visitin' your pa and… _Or_ the lady," he added in a way that implied that he had correctly guessed the nature of the lack of response received, but understandably would rather _not_ divulge such facts to his captain's offspring. "Actually, Jack might be in the galley," he desperately stalled. "Or hell, the armoury, why don't we go look, eh?"

"But Uncle Josh," Pearl's sweet voice carried a little louder than I knew was natural, "Papa and Si-Si _must_ be in the cabin, because no one saw them come out, did you, good sirs?"

Several male voices replied tiredly in the affirmative, and Jack's head fell heavily onto my shoulder with an exasperated groan: clearly, he was still under constant surveillance from his crew.

"Perhaps," Pearl said, her voice growing louder still, and I cringed at the mischievous lilt in her tone, "we should give them a little while to find their clothes—Is that alright with you, Papa?"

Jack buried his face further into my skin, not in seduction but in complete and utter mortification, his facial hair tickling my neck, and I heard him growl in annoyance, "One of these days, I'm going to bloody kill her…"

**-x!x-**


	31. Barren?

**AN:** Christ, thirty chapters already, and I've yet to introduce anything of actual interest…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty:** Barren?_

Five days had passed since Pearl's untimely interruption, and I had reluctantly returned to my duties, climbing up to the deck only once, where I was immediately faced with a foreboding wall of a dark cavern, the wind harshly blowing rain into my face and my loose hair about my shoulders. Jack had neglected to mention that he'd anchored the ship in a cave, so as to repair, from my curious glance upwards, a part of the crow's nest that had clearly suffered at the hands of nature, and sew up the ripped ebony sailcloth of his precious _Black Pearl._ Glancing towards the entrance of the cave, I could immediately see from the violent crashing of the waves and heavy rain that the storm still reigned.

"I thought I told you to stay below decks," Jack's voice said from my right as I'd taken a hesitant step forwards in the direction of the captain's cabin. I started in surprise, my foot slipping, and stumbled, whirling gracelessly around to face him.

"I was just… looking for…" I began, silently damning the uncomfortable heeled shoes for being so slippery; those things weren't made with damp decks and tropical tempests in mind.

"Clearly, you didn't need to look very far," he stated as I was about to continue to explain myself, grabbing my hand and pulling me forcefully back to the stairs, placing my palm firmly on the railing. "How may I be of service?"

I swallowed, drumming my fingers on the smoothed wood. "Actually, I wanted to speak to Anamaria…"

"Well, she's not here, but down in the crew's quarters, recuperating from seventeen hours of duty," Jack enlightened me, giving me a little shove away towards the gunnery. One of many gun decks, come to think of it…

"Listen, Sierra," he continued as he escorted me down the steps, "there's a reason I've requested you confine your lovely presence to below deck." I could tell that he was very much preoccupied at the moment, and so, already shaken as I was, didn't bother to argue. "Not that I'm trying to cage you, but I've enough to worry about without concerning myself with your own overall well-being… Surely you can appreciate my concern?"

I nodded, murmuring a meek apology, and was about to continue my descent when he stopped me again, his hand resting on my shoulder.

"Are you alright?" he asked bluntly.

I turned my head, looking up at him, and nodded once. I knew from his sceptical expression that he didn't believe my pathetic lie for a moment. "Come on, Sierra, you can trust me…"

"Nothing's wrong," I assured him, my hand reaching up to rest on his own. "Why'd you ask?"

"You seem quieter than normal, and seeing how I sincerely doubted that the Good Lord had gone to the extreme trouble of answering my prayers, I came to the immediate conclusion that something must've greatly troubled you."

"I'm just tired," I explained away. Which wasn't a lie; I'd been so anxious that I was unable to sleep for the past two or three days. "I always misplace my cutting wit when fatigued."

He was still ever the sceptic, his palm slipping out from under my fingers before both hands reappeared on my waist, easily pulling me back towards him. "And I somehow doubt Pearl's infinite energy and enthusiasm is to blame, am I right?"

I turned in his arms, tilting my head as I looked up at him. "_Nothing_ is the matter," I repeated, wishing he'd stop looking into my eyes like that.

Jack was clearly about to protest otherwise, but at that very moment there was a distinctive crashing sound from above. Jack's eyes widened in comical horror, and I immediately pulled away, giving him a shove of his own.

"Go," I advised him. "Your _Pearl_ appears to be in need of your attention—"

Before I could even finish, he'd dashed madly back up, skipping a few steps altogether. I sighed in relief, gathering my skirts and continuing my lonely trek to Anamaria's dwelling.

* * *

Twenty-five or so minutes later and I still hesitated, hovering uncertainly at the door. Actually, I was wondering if I had any right to approach the pirate in particular; were we actually friends, or had that all been a figment of my imagination?

As I silently battled with myself, the door opened, and Anamaria's head popped out to glare at me. "Alright, you've been pacing up and down for the past half-hour or so, an' frankly I'm starting to get a tad irritated—were ye ever plannin' to knock?"

I felt myself flushing in embarrassment. "Well yes, of course—I was just—"

"And I take it you'll want to come in?"

"Well, I'd assumed—Um, actually, that… that was the plan, yes… But if you—"

Anamaria growled in annoyance and ducked back in, the door forcibly crashing shut behind her.

"…Would prefer to slam the door in my face, that would be fine," I finished stupidly, staring at the offending slab of wood; I swore it was still vibrating…

From inside, I could hear muffled thuds, metallic clangs, a yelp of pain, and a scraping sound. Needless to say, I was a little worried.

"Uh, Anamaria?"

"Another minute!" she called cantankerously back.

Just as I was wondering if she had murdered a crewmate and was hiding his body from my prying gaze, the door slammed open yet again, and the pirate had reappeared, breathing heavily from her ninety-eight seconds of strenuous housekeeping, hair in disarray. "You can come in now," she permitted, and I nodded my gratitude, slipping in through the door, accidentally knocking against her shoulder.

"Sorry!" I said, my eyes roaming around her suspiciously plain room. Even without the clutter she'd so obviously just thrown into a small chest, her living space was tiny; no more than twelve or thirteen square feet, I speculated. And contrary to Pearl or Jack's, Anamaria's cabin was utterly devoid of furniture, save for the tiny trunk, a hammock, and a covered lantern that was lit; although it was about midday, very little light was coming from the porthole opposite us.

"So," Anamaria said conversationally, closing the door and sitting herself down on the floorboards, gesturing for me to follow suit, "what brings you here?"

"Um, well…" I stuttered, rearranging my skirts about my knees as I knelt across from her. "I don't really know… how to say it… I… I… I don't know what to do…"

"What to do about _what?_" Anamaria asked. She blew a stray lock of hair out of her eyes in frustration. "Sierra, I can't very well offer any useful advice unless you tell me what's weighing so heavily on your mind now can I, ye daft strumpet?"

"Well, I'm worried that I… that I…" I stumbled.

"Worried, eh? I can see that much—about _what?_"

"I'm late!" I blurted out in desperation.

Anamaria's brown eyes blinked in confusion. "Explain?"

"I was meant to have gotten my period five days ago," I told her, "and I obviously hadn't, so that must mean—"

"Slow down," she scolded, raising a callused hand. "What'd you just say?"

"My period's late, _five_ days late, which probably means that I won't be getting it, and—"

Anamaria placed her hand firmly over my mouth. "Alright, calm down and _breathe,_" she advised. "Think you can slow down now? Good; now, you were saying…?"

I gulped down another breath of air. "My time of month's appeared to have been rescheduled," I was able to say, clearly but shakily.

Anamaria's only reaction was to shrug. "So?" she said.

My eyes widened. "So? _So?_ Ana, do you realise what this could mean?"

"And do _you_ realise that there's more than one cause for a little disruption in your cycle?" Anamaria shot exasperatedly back.

I stared at her, my jaw slack. "Like what?"

"Well, I'm assuming you're not used to keeping a ship as large as this clean and orderly—even if you _are_ failing at the task," she added, and I scowled at her.

"No, I'm not," I admitted grudgingly.

"And all the food on here's rationed, not to mention it ain't the most nourishing either…" she trailed off. At my blank look, she impatiently elaborated. "In my opinion, the reason you've not got your monthlies is 'cause your body's not used to our food nor our work." She squinted closely at me. "Come to think of it, you've been looking tired lately…"

"Is that the only thing you can come up with?" I asked her. It sounded more than likely, but the pessimist in me still reasoned that it was likelier that I was about to be subjected to nine months of emotional unbalance and weight gain. Oh God help me, I was going to get _cellulite_…

"Well, another theory's that you're still unsettled by Doyle, and all the stress…" She trailed off as I glared at her. "What?"

"I am not _unsettled_ by Doyle," I said slowly, irritated that everybody I'd encountered—which, admittedly, wasn't many—were all so intent on assuming otherwise. "I'm really, really _not._"

She raised a dark eyebrow in scepticism. "So if I was to tell you that I'd been having some graphic dreams 'bout you that would certainly count as sinful, blasphemous and depraved 'fore trying to kiss you, for a laugh, you'll not take it seriously?" she asked rather bluntly.

I wrinkled my nose. "Why would you _joke_ about something like that? It's not funny, just… weird…"

"Let's just say I did, for some reason; would you believe me?" she determinedly persisted.

I shook my head, and she smiled. "Good," she said slyly.

"Why are you talking like th—" My question turned into a yelp of surprise as she suddenly leaned forward, hands on either side of my face, forcing me to look at her, her lips an inch or so from my own.

"Stop thrashing about," she hissed as my hands tried unsuccessfully to push her wrists away. "I'm just proving a point—I ain't planning on kissing you, in case you've not realised!"

I froze, recognising that she was, indeed, speaking the truth. "Oh, right," I said sheepishly, attempting to avoid her gaze and failing miserably. "Sorry, I… didn't notice…" I laughed uneasily at her affronted expression.

"See?" she said, releasing me and sitting back on her haunches. "He _has_ affected you; I can only wonder how far the damage has gone, if something as unimportant as what he'd merely _said_ stuck in your mind…" She looked at me again. "I know he told you that lie 'bout how I fancy you," she stated determinedly.

"How'd you know about that?" I asked her. "You weren't there…" I frowned, the memory of the night still hazy in my mind. "Were you?"

She shook her head, her loose hair falling about her shoulders. "Donovan told me," she said. "Told the whole bloody ship, actually, 'bout that night, and the number of men who actually believe that is more than a little pitiable… You can tell they've been a' sea for a while…"

I lowered my eyes, feeling more than a little uncomfortable. "It's stupid really, 'cause I wasn't even actually raped… Kissed and groped? Definitely, but at least I wasn't raped this time, so I really should be grateful for that…" I snapped my jaw shut to silence my babbling, clearing my throat before returning to the issue at hand.

"You've got a couple of great theories there, Ana, but I'm still not ruling out the possibility that… You know…"

"But you… Sierra, if you don't mind me asking, but don't you have a barren womb or somethin'?"

My head shot up in horror. "Did Jack tell you that?"

She laughed at my expression. "Don't worry, sweetheart, Sparrow's not one to betray a woman's trust—well, in some cases he isn't, such as this. He told the brat, who told ole Gibbs, who told me, an' I was just 'bout to tell Cotton, but decided that that would be pointless and so kept me trap shut."

"My God, all of you pirates here… You're like gossiping old women…"

"Oh, so you've seen Dickinson's embroidery work, then," she interpreted.

"Father Dickinson _embroiders?_"

"Oh yes; the man's quite the accomplished… debutante…"

I blinked. "Um, correctly me if I'm wrong, but isn't that a… An expression used to describe young aristocratic females?"

"Yes, I am well aware of the meaning of the word, Sierra," Anamaria reassured me. "But I think I was reminding you of your infertility?"

I fidgeted nervously with the hem of my skirt. "Oh. Right. _That._ Yeah, um… That was… kinda… A little bit like… Kind of a lie…"

She narrowed her eyes. "I'm sorry, it was a what?"

"I lied to him, I… made it all up…" I repeated shamefully. "My sister _was_ engaged, but they never married because her fiancé became a Buddhist monk, you see, and found the pursuit of Nirvana more enjoyable than bedding, let alone _marrying,_ this gorgeous, skinny, blonde, blue-eyed, smooth-skinned, twenty-four-inched waist, D-cup…" I understandably stopped, realising that not only was I once again a walking anachronism, but I was a bitter, teeth-grinding, hand-clenching, green-with-jealousy-as-well-as-sickness one at that. If that makes any grammatical sense, which I'm not quite sure it does. That's what happens when I start to think of my sister, you see; I have the sudden urge to strangle something pretty and skinny and tall and blonde and—

"Are you actually paying attention to me?"

I snapped out of my invidious reverie in moments, starting as I stared up into Anamaria's exasperated face. "I'm sorry, what?" I asked sheepishly.

"I was merely wondering if you were trying to say, in your own way, that you lied to Sparrow about… your barrenness…"

"…Well, I might've done…"

"_Sierra…_"

"Alright, _yes!_ Yes, I did…" I wilted, hanging my head in shame.

She sighed in frustration. "Why'd you do something as stupid as that?"

"Because—because—because I didn't think it'll _matter,_ because I didn't want to scare off Jack, because I didn't want him dumping me at the next port, because—"

Her fingers were once again pressed on my lips. "I get the picture," she said calmly. "You want to be around him, don't you? You trust him, though personally I ain't sure why…"

She frowned at the thought, studying my face closely. "So you can't actually tell him, even if—_if_—you are, can you? Not without admitting you've lied to his face, at any rate…"

I shook my head dejectedly, meeting her gaze in fear. "And what if I am? What if—What can I do? I can't keep it, not while I'm still on here, and I _definitely_ can't look after it, even if I had help…"

"Perhaps you're not carrying _anyone's_ child," she reasoned. When this failed to lift my spirits in any way, she sighed, reaching out to take my hand in comfort.

"Alright, how 'bout this: At the next port, I'll take you with me when I'm given shore leave, and we'll look for a midwife to examine ye, alright? Then we'll know for sure if you should be expecting a brat o' your own."

"And if I am? I mean, if I should expect a… child?"

Anamaria hesitated for a moment. "Well, the thing with most midwives, you see, is if you pay 'em enough, they can…" She swallowed nervously, uncertain of my reaction. "I mean, I've heard that… Not exactly _all_ midwives, but I know that the French ones… French whores, at any rate, they…"

"Abortion?" I asked, feeling a flame of hope flare inside of me. "Really?"

She nodded.

"Oh, thank God! I hadn't thought that abortion even _existed_ here—" I froze, cursing my stupidity: If there was such a thing as contraception in this century—and there was, as I'd used a few rather… questionable methods at the Garter, although I was uncertain as to their efficacy—then it made sense that abortion also existed, in one form or another.

This sudden knowledge left me with one vital question. "But… How do they do it?"

She struggled to answer. "Well, they could give you certain herbs in food and drink, and… well, that's just one of the… And then there's, um, this one way, with water and a syringe, it's meant to be very popular with the whores in Paris, I heard… But I think the most common's a… a hooked rod…" Either there weren't any more methods that she knew of, or for personal reasons of her own, she'd lost the will to describe them, but that didn't matter to me; after she'd mentioned the rod, I didn't think I'd wanted her to continue, anyway.

"Ana?" I asked her, and she looked up at me from the floorboards. "I'd just like to say… thank you. For offering to help like that; it's really… Thanks," I finished idiotically, clearly incapable of Oscar-winning speeches.

She smiled at me in return, giving my hand a squeeze. "But you know, there's still the possibility that you've an empty womb; I still think it's the food and the work and the bastard Doyle that's upset ya…"

I shrugged, tilting my head back as I yawned. "It might be…" I grudgingly acknowledged.

"And look at that, you're tired as all hell; perhaps you should just go back to your own quarters, get some rest…" she not-so-subtly hinted.

I groaned, flopping back onto the hard floor. "Mind if I stay here? I won't interfere with whatever it is you were doing, I just wanna get some sleep…"

"What could possibly stop you from sleeping in your own cabin?" Anamaria's voice came from somewhere above me.

"Pearl. She's in there," I said, thinking that that in itself was self-explanatory.

"Aw, c'mon, you can't honestly think I'll believe ye're actually able to sleep _there,_ do ya?"

I yawned in response, stretching out my legs, and ignored her.

"Can't you at least… Sleep in the corner? Or the hammock—take the bloody hammock, wench; you're taking up a fair amount of room, just lying there…"

The only movement I'd made was to turn onto my side, curling a little. She let out a little grunt of annoyance, and before I knew it, her hands were on either of my shoulders, and she was dragging me the short distance to the left wall.

"Ow…" I whined, opening my eyes as I sat up and rubbed my mistreated back whilst I glared at the abusive Anamaria.

The alarmingly strong woman was dragging the chest away from me for completely inscrutable reasons, twisting and turning it about so that I would be unable to discern its contents when she lifted back the lid.

"Whatcha hiding in there, Ana?" I sang, deciding that now was a good time to be a nuisance.

She glanced back at me as she fumbled with the key, gently pushing the lid back. "I was just sorting out a few o' my belongings…"

"Which are…?"

"Just a couple of shirts an' breeches, another pair of shoes, a few pistols, me cutlass, some daggers, my purse…"

I snorted, crawling back to her, and she immediately slammed the lid down.

"I also have some undergarments in there which I don't want even _you_ to see…" she said quickly.

"You're a terrible liar for a normal person, let alone a pirate," I informed her with a shake of my head. "So tell me, what's in there that you've stolen?"

"Well, most of the clothes—"

"_Ana,_" I whined, "you think I'm gonna tell anyone? I just told _you_ a secret, have you forgotten that already? And not only that, but you're going to help me with it—by God, woman, I'm _indebted_ to you!"

She was clearly still suspicious, looking at me closely with her black eyes, but she made no attempt to stop me as I'd pulled the lid back open. There were a few faded items of clothing, as she'd said, and she possessed at _least_ four pistols, but just as I was pushing these items aside, she reached out from beside me, pulling out a large greying sack that had been patched and mended, and held it out to me.

As I'd suspected, Anamaria _had_ filched a few precious objects; a couple of golden candlesticks, a long chain of pearls, some diamond earrings… Mostly jewellery of the large and tacky variety, I noted with disdain, not thinking much of her taste. But then again, she'd taken them for profit, not decoration; I supposed that they were worth more to her than the smaller, more delicate specimens she must've overlooked.

"Where'd you get all this?" I asked her, partly in awe, and she shrugged sheepishly.

"After the Royal Navy had left Isla de Muerta for Port Royal, we sailed the _Pearl_ back—just to get enough to pawn so we could use the money for the repairs and such, that was the intention, I assure ye… And it just so happened that we… helped ourselves, a little, as well. 'Course, we've all neglected to mention this to Sparrow, and as he's planning on sailing back someday…" She trailed off, her wicked grin completing the sentence for her.

"You're such a dishonest crew!" I exclaimed. "Really manipulative… I applaud you all."

I lifted a golden necklace embedded with rather large rubies, allowing it to spin as I studied it. "What _is_ Isla de Muerta?" I asked of her.

Anamaria started, looking at me in undisguised disbelief. "Didn't Jack tell you 'bout it?" she enquired in genuine curiosity.

I shrugged. "He might've… Actually, he must've, 'cause I have heard that name before…" I looked up at her, tilting my head. "Isn't that where that woman, what's her name, Elena, was held hostage or something, a couple of months back?"

"Elizabeth," she corrected automatically, snatching the rubies back. "I'll tell you more, but I ain't as skilled a storyteller as my captain is… Why don't you ask him to tell ye about it sometime? Like _now?_"

"I think I will—_sometime,_" I said as she snatched the grey sack out of my grasp, shoving it back into the trunk. I yawned again, stretching my arms, and happily curled up on the floor. "Thanks again for the whole midwife thing…"

"You're not going to… are you?" she asked yet again.

"'Night, Ana…"

"Aw, for Christ's sake…"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** …This must really be starting to get annoying by now…


	32. Immoral Ankles

**AN:** Sincerest of apologies for the late update. Hope this is worth it, though!

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-One:** Immoral Ankles_

When I'd awoken three days after my pact with Anamaria, it was to an eerily quiet morning, with relatively little indication of any storm whatsoever; a welcome contrast to the loud wailing of the wind and rain that I had grown accustomed to. But instead of leaping out of my bed and embracing the indubitably flawless blue sky, I merely groaned into my pillow and pulled the bed sheet up over my head.

A faint whimpering caught my attention. At first I was more inclined to ignore the unfamiliar sound and sink back into the mattress, but there was something vaguely familiar about the pathetic squeak that made me reluctantly sit up, yawning sleepily and rubbing my eyes in a futile attempt at awakening.

The source of the sound was sitting hunched up at her dresser, face buried in her small porcelain hands whilst she occasionally peered at her reflection through her delicate fingers.

"Pearl?" I asked worriedly.

The child visibly jumped, turning slightly to stare at me, her face still masked by her hands.

"Si-Si…" she questioned hesitantly, her voice quiet and shaking with trepidation, "Do you have a… a veil?"

I frowned, blinking sleepily. "A veil?" I repeated, uncertain of what I had heard.

"Or a _mantilla_," she hurriedly amended. "Anything that will cover the general facial area…"

I shook my head, more in an unsuccessful attempt at banning cobwebs than as an actual answer to her question, looking in concern at her wide blue eyes peeking from behind her snowy fingers.

"Pearl," I enquired suspiciously, "what exactly have you done to your face?"

"Absolutely nothing!" she indignantly exclaimed. "How _dare_ you suggest such a thing—I'm not _narcissistic_, Sierra!"

I didn't even bother to point out her contradictory behaviour.

"Peal, you have a lovely face," I informed the girl as I attempted to repress a yawn. "Why, if _I_ wasn't as remarkably pretty as I am in my own right—and with a better figure, too—I might very possibly be somewhat jealous."

There was a pause in the conversation as Pearl registered the encouraging compliment in shock.

"That was _mean_," she eventually concluded, and I knew that there was an adorable pout lurking somewhere beneath her palms.

"Oh come on, Pearl, you know that I—"

"_I_ can't _help_ that I'm so _scrawny_!" she burst out, effectively silencing my apology. "Just look at my ancestry! I have got a rum-addled, skeletal midget for a father and a half-starved" (Yet remarkably well-endowed, I silently added) "wench for a mother! It's not _my_ fault!" And with this unexpected emotional explosion concluded, she effectively slumped down, crossing her arms on the dresser so that her face was effectively hidden from the entire watching world.

"Oh, it's so hideous, hideous, _hideous_…" she chanted in heartbreaking despair. "Why has no one ever told me that from the day I was born I was irrevocably sentenced to a swift and merciless decline of my otherwise flawless physiognomy?"

Now, if it had been later in the day, and I was more fully awake, I might have stood half a chance of comprehending what she'd just uttered. As it was, a higher power beyond my control had deemed it appropriate that circumstances would not rule in my favour, and I therefore had to subject myself to the belittling task of asking her to repeat her rhetorical question in plain English so that I might have had half a chance of deciphering a reason for her clearly desolate and disillusioned frame of mind.

Or something along those lines.

"Reason? _Reason?_ Why Si-Si, I've a very legitimate _reason_!" she railed, and with this threw herself back onto the mattress in melodramatic despair.

As she stared wordlessly up at me, the thought suddenly occurred that I was seeing more of the whites of her eyes than was perhaps natural. Moved by an overwhelming sense of compassion and a stronger sense of curiosity, I scooped her up into my arms, stroking her satin hair with the tips of my fingers, and murmured, "Oh honey, what's wrong?"

She responded by nuzzling further into my shoulder, and asked in a muted whisper, "Do you promise you won't laugh?"

"Of course," I swore, wondering what it was that was so important to her.

"Do you _swear_ you won't tell anyone? Not even Papa?"

This last request had me somewhat concerned, as you can well imagine. "Why ever not, Pearl?"

Because it's very, very personal, Si-Si, and very, very, very close to my heart," she answered in all sincerity. "Do you _swear_, Si-Si?"

"On my life," I solemnly vowed.

She nodded her satisfaction, and burrowed further into my shoulder, taking deep, calming breaths. After an eternity, she straightened her back, and bringing her lips close to my ear, whispered:

"I have a wrinkle."

A very awkward silence followed.

"And Papa won't let me use any of his anti-aging cream either," she threw in for good measure. "He _never_ lets anyone else touch any of his face cream, you know. He's so selfish, Si-Si…"

"You… have a wrinkle?" I repeated slowly.

"A very big, obvious one, Sierra; right across my forehead. Sometimes it joins up my eyebrows."

"…Sometimes?" I repeated incredulously. "What do you mean, sometimes?"

"Well, it keeps moving you see. Sometimes it isn't there at all, you know; sometimes it splits into two on either side of my mouth, and in really bad cases, my eyes as well," she confessed.

"…Pearl," I enquired suspiciously, "were you by any chance _smiling_ when those last two cases of skin-wrinkling you mentioned appeared?"

"Well, I _was_ happy…" she grudgingly admitted.

"And that big one on your forehead; were you concentrating on something at the time?"

"_No_… I was upset; Papa was talking to this woman earlier today and wouldn't speak to me and I didn't like her at all," she explained sulkily.

"Pearl, perhaps Jack had something really important to discuss with Anamaria; something nautical and boring," I gently reprimanded.

"It wasn't Anamaria," Pearl corrected sullenly. "Anamaria is nice and doesn't ignore me and keeps hitting Papa at regular intervals whenever she's happy or angry or annoyed or exasperated or—"

"What a sadist," I remarked. "Now Pearl, what's his name?"

She looked up at me and blinked.

"Who's name?"

"There are only two people in the world that can make a woman really self-conscious about her looks, Pearl," I began. "Mothers—and men."

"But what if you like _women_?" she piped up.

"That doesn't apply here," I waved away.

"But my mother isn't here, and I don't like anyone," she vehemently denied.

"Then why were you so paranoid about your 'wrinkles' if your mother wasn't here and there was no object of desire?" I cornered.

She gave me a sly grin in return. "Well, it woke you up, didn't it?"

* * *

After about half an hour or so of alternatively swatting at Pearl and getting dressed, we'd finally emerged onto the deck, where I was dazzled by the view of an azure ocean lapping at the shores of a white sandy beach lined with palm trees.

There were, of course, signs of a hurricane recently invading paradise; I could clearly see the distinctive outlines of fallen palmettos scattered across the otherwise perfect seashore.

"Do you see that mountain over there, on the other side?" Pearl pointed out. "That's where the cave we were anchored in for the storm is. Papa just sailed the _Pearl_ to the other side of the island when the storm was weakening.

"Oh Si-Si, it's so lovely over there," she reminisced as we watched a longboat being lowered into the surprisingly peaceful waves. "There's a waterfall and a pool there, and everything's green and fresh, and there's _lots_ of pretty flowers…"

She continued to enthusiastically describe the island paradise as we clambered into one of the boats, which consisted almost exclusively of the few men whose names I knew; Gibbs, Cotton, and the Irish twins Connelly and Donovan, who'd I'd 'rescued' from the brig and who in turn helped save me from Doyle. Jack was nowhere in sight, to my surprising disappointment, so instead I contented myself with listening to Pearl's continuing narrative of the paradise island, stroking the feathers of Cotton's parrot.

"What's your name?" I'd said to it when Pearl had eventually run out of breath. "Polly?"

Donovan—I think; it was the one that had spoken on the night that Jack had killed Doyle, in any case—snorted. "'Polly the Parrot'?" he mocked. "I'm getting sick of all of these stereotypes—really, no sane man would name an animal with a name beginning with the same letter as the animal's."

It was only after the third time I'd replayed his little speech in my head did I make any sense of it.

"So what's its name then?" I asked him.

Connelly and Donovan both looked at each other in confusion, caught off guard by so random an enquiry.

"We just call it Paulette," Connelly answered finally as Donovan began sputtering, his cheeks turning scarlet.

And that was when the oars of the boat, loyally manned by Gibbs and the owner of Paulette the Parrot, halted, the bow of the boat only feet away from the pale blue waters of the shallows. Pearl happily leaped out, splashing those around her as she jumped into the shallow water that was mid-calf in height, apparently uncaring that her skirt, shoes and stockings were saturated with the seawater, gleefully skipping along to the beach. The remaining crewmembers followed her progress intently, before turning their eyes onto me, and finally each other.

"What?" I said to them.

Only one brave individual had the courage to answer me:

"Dead men tell no tales," Paulette squawked, flapping emerald wings to further accentuate the point.

"Cotton has a point," Gibbs agreed solemnly.

"_What?_" I asked, more confused than before. When no one, not even Paulette the Parrot answered, I rolled my eyes, kicking my shoes off, and began to lift my skirt so I could remove my garters and stockings.

"Dead men tell no tales!" Paulette suddenly squawked, louder than before, landing fiercely on my knee to prevent the skirt from rising higher.

"No, really," I insisted, attempting to pry the bird's talons off. "I'm not a little girl like Pearl, I don't want to get totally drenched—if I take my shoes and stockings off, then only a little of the skirt will get wet—"

"Bloody dead men tell no bloody tales!" the parrot swore, about to peck at my fingers.

"Cotton's saying it's suicide," Gibbs translated helpfully.

"We can't watch her take off her stockings," Connelly said bewilderedly, all ignoring my look of blatant befuddlement. "I saw her ankles just now—"

The remaining two men with intact tongues let out gasps of horror.

"You saw her ankles?" Gibbs repeated, his face paling noticeably.

"Just the one!" Connelly defended.

"That's one ankle too many, mate," Donovan said sorrowfully. "Be sure the captain don't find out—"

"He already knows!" Connelly said, sounding almost hysterical as he waved his hand in the general direction of the beach. "Look, he's watching us! He has the devil's hearing, you know! He knows I saw her ankles, and now he's going to shoot me like he shot Doyle! 'Cept _I_ didn't mean to do it!"

My eyes drifted to the beach, where sure enough, there were several pirates all busily at work doing something no doubt tiring and tedious; and of course there was Pearl, kicking the water at and effectively splashing Father Dickinson (his wig was unmistakable); but try as I might, I couldn't spot the captain. So instead, I refocused my attention on the remaining sailors in the boat. To be honest, I wasn't really certain what to make of these men, who put a little ankle-spotting in the same league as attempted rape.

I looked at Gibbs, who, worryingly enough, seemed to understand their concern.

"Connelly, as long as it doesn't happen again, Jack won't shoot you. An' if he _does_ know, say it was an accident—say that she was tryin' to kick that bird away, and the skirt lifted—"

"Gibbs, don't you remember what he was saying just this morning!" Donovan panicked. "That if any one of us so much as _look_ at her indecently—well, looking at her ankles certainly count as indecent! An' every decent folk know it!"

…I really didn't understand why these strange men were panicking over the sight of my ankles; I was almost certain that if Jack _had_ been hearing this, he'll no doubt find it extremely entertaining.

Gibbs seemed to have been the only one to have kept his head. "Calm down, mates; what Jack specifically said was he'll shoot any man looking to force her without her consent; so long as you didn't _force_ her—"

"But—But with the ankles, and—and the indecent looking!" Connelly panicked, now verging on lunacy. "I _know_ I was looking at her ankles without her consent—that's visual rape, that is! It's only visual, an' it was entirely accidental, but it's still rape!" He slumped down, and Donovan patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"I _deserve_ to be shot…" he concluded miserably.

"Wind in the sails!" Paulette agreed.

I was starting to get a headache.

"Gentlemen, please!" I burst out, waving my arms to gain their attention. "Let's get one thing straight here: there was no rape committed in this rowboat. Yes, I'm just as confused and scandalised as the rest of you," I added on seeing four jaws drop with shock—which, in Mr Cotton's case, was rather unpleasant. "But I'll just like to say one thing: I've given all of you on the crew my consent—As far as my legs are concerned," I added hurriedly to clarify matters.

There was a shocked silence after my little speech.

"Swab the decks!" Paulette crooned from her perch on my knee.

"Cotton says you really a whore," Gibbs automatically translated, his voice sounding stunned.

"Oh, for God's sake," I snapped, swiping at the parrot, who squawked and flew back to rest upon its owner's shoulder. With gasps of horror sprouting up from all around me, I defiantly rolled up my skirt and practically ripped the garter holding my stocking in place apart, defiantly pulling the white material off of my leg and attempting to stuff it into my shoe with little success before repeating the process with its unfortunate twin. With a final glare at the shocked assembly, I stepped out of the boat into the ironically ankle-deep water and trudged off in search of Pearl. Father Dickinson made the Sign of the Cross and hissed at me as I stalked past him, but I paid him no heed.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Anamaria, sitting on the beach, her back facing the ocean, an extremely large sailcloth blanketing her legs, holding what looked like a needle between her finger and thumb. But the strange thing was, although there was an expression of the utmost concentration, I realised that she wasn't focused on the task set out before her.

"What are you staring at?" I greeted, placing myself beside her uninvited. An impatiently flapping hand silently told me to hold my tongue, and she nodded in the general direction of the trees.

Unquestioningly I followed her gaze, my eyes resting on a fallen palm on which Jack and some sailor was seated.

"I haven't seen him before," I commented. "Lovely hair though; what's his name?"

"I don't know, I've ne'er seen _her_ before neither," she said bluntly. "She's not a part of the crew; must've been shipwrecked or somethin'. What do you think of her?"

My curiosity roused, I tilted my head, narrowing my eyes as I attempted to study her thoroughly. From my distance, I couldn't tell whether or not she was pretty, as I could only see a profile of her face. What I _could_ see was a mass of long golden hair ending about her waist, tousled and unruly, yet enviously soft and thick. She was dressed like Anamaria in a plain white shirt, with breeches black in colour cut just below the knee, showing her muscular carves and bare feet.

"No one's complaining about _her_ having ankles," I noted bitterly. "I can't really see her face though… Can't we get a little closer?"

"Of course," Anamaria acquiesced, sticking the needle into the cloth before hauling the heavy material over her shoulder. Looking down, I noted that the pirate was also baring her ankles for the entire world to see. I must've been a special case, then. "We'll just say you're worried about your complexion and we're moving into the shade, if anyone asks."

"You're very paranoid," I remarked. She responded by playfully kicking sand in my general direction.

Settling myself comfortably against a tree, I stole a surreptitious glance in the direction of the mystery woman and the back of Jack's head. I still wasn't close enough to hear what they were saying, but the pirate's face was remarkably easier to study from this distance.

She was extremely pretty, much to my chagrin, with a flawless face of ivory and large eyes a blue so dark I thought that they were violet. I would later learn that the amethyst colour of her eyes was actually an optical illusion, caused by a few flecks of grey reflecting the blue that was the main tint of her irises.

"So tell me, Sierra," Anamaria's voice interrupted my cross-examination. "What d'you reckon?"

"I think he's in," I astutely observed. "I mean, she's being really obvious, isn't she?"

"Are you alright with that?" she queried unexpectedly.

I looked at her out of the corner of my eye before glancing back at the happy couple and sighing. "I guess I am," I admitted. "You know, I'm kind of pleased with it, actually; I've noticed that she's using a few tricks that I've certainly never encountered before, and then of course there's some that I have."

"…I don't quite follow…" Anamaria informed me as she unfolded the cloth and continued with her stitching.

"Are you asking me to analyse the situation?" I asked hopefully. She nodded, and I clapped my hands together in delight.

"Very well; let's start with the obvious then, shall we?" I was silent as I assessed the two conversing pirates.

"I'm guessing she's talking about boats and sailing," I deduced. "It's something he's interested in that she's using to her own advantage. A classic technique that completely grabs his attention; makes the man in question realise that she has something resembling a mind of her own rather than just a pretty face and figure.

"Now let's look at her clothing," I continued.

"Oh Christ, what have I let myself in for?" Anamaria groaned.

"She's wearing sensible, masculine clothing—"

"Of course she is," Anamaria butted in. "She's a pirate."

"Yes, but she's deliberately chosen breeches that are a little _too_ close-fitting to be ignored," I indicated with my hand. "And her shirt's as low-cut as Jack's. If you ask her about it, her excuse will probably be that the Caribbean's a hot place to live in, let alone partake of all the strenuous manual labour sailing brings, and men tend to be stupid enough to accept these explanations without question, but _we_ know better."

"But she could honestly be feeling a little heated in this weather—" Anamaria argued.

"Oh, Ana," I sighed, "you're so naïve and trusting." I glanced back at the pretty blonde, who had said something that made Jack laugh aloud, and continued with my analysis.

"And if you still think she's only dressing for practicality, then I invite you to stare at her right thigh."

"Now why would I want to do that?" Anamaria asked in puzzlement, craning her neck. "Damn it, I can't; Sparrow's head's in the way; that man must do something about his hair…"

"She's wearing a _garter_." I paused for dramatic effect. "A _leather_ garter. It's strapping two trident-looking things to her leg."

"You're just making that up," she accused.

"No, I'm not! I swear I'm not."

"Well, that's actually quite a practical place to put a knife, if you think about it," Anamaria defended yet again. "Easy to get to, so obvious no one will think of looking there, yet extremely well-hidden 'neath a coat, which I'm guessing she has somewhere."

"Yet at the same time sultry and provocative," I agreed. "She's sending several messages all at once; on one level, the daggers are saying: 'I'm dangerous and independent and would not hesitate to resort to violence. For your own personal safety, stay away from me.' But the fact that she's strapped them to her leg using a piece of leather for a garter also says, 'I'm confident in my sexuality', as well as hinting at a little deviancy in the bedroom. Now that I think about it, those weapons could be interpreted as slightly phallic…"

"Are you sure you're not reading too much into this?" Anamaria interjected.

I shrugged. "You know, I probably am. Then again, it's always fun to pick total strangers apart. After this we should try to guess her name—I've pegged her down as a Katherine or Katrina."

"God help me…" Anamaria groaned, bending determinedly over her stitching.

"And now, let's look at her body language; it's so blatantly sexual they might as well be going at it on that tree."

"Sierra, this is getting ridiculous…"

"She's straddling that tree trunk, which is a blatant allusion to riding a stallion—and I don't mean the kind with hoofs, either—"

"Sierra, if you don't shut up about that woman and clean up your language right now, as God is my witness I _will_—"

"—And the way she's leaning forward, like she's paying _rapt_ attention, only naturally draws his line of vision to—"

"That's it," Anamaria snapped, and with the distinctive sound of breaking thread, had me pinned down upon the sand, left hand effectively trapping both my wrists above my head whilst the right held her needle menacingly above my bottom lip.

"One more word, Sierra…" she threatened.

"You know, this position isn't really doing that lesbian reputation of yours any favours," I informed in a stage whisper.

Her jaw visibly tightened, before the faintest indications of an amused smile flitted across her features and she released me, straightening up, and looked around, her forehead wrinkled in a frown.

"Where'd the lass go?" she wondered aloud.

I sat up, scanning the shoreline before remembering that the younger of the two Sparrows had mentioned something about a pretty waterfall on the other side of the island.

"I should go find her, shouldn't I?" I asked, reluctant to cut my observations so short.

"She _is_ your responsibility," Anamaria noted, turning over her sailcloth in despair. "Look what you've made me done, you stupid wench! And all because of your annoying jealous ramblings—Don't you even _think_ of denying it," she warned as I opened my mouth. "Matter of fact, don't say nothin' at all—just go and find the little one. She'll take your mind off of Sparrow and his new strumpet, if nothing else." And with this rather arrogant command issued, she went back to attacking the sailcloth, brow furrowed in concentration as she attempted to rectify the mistake I'd inadvertently caused her to make.

I stared at her for several moments, shocked at her _completely_ inaccurate conclusion of me and my emotional state and, uncertain of what to make of her presumptions, grudgingly agreed that hunting for Pearl would have been the best course of action for the moment.

I cast a last glance at where Jack and the ethereally beautiful woman whose name I didn't know were sat on the dead tree, each clearly revelling in the other's company, and felt… _something_. Something nameless and alien that I'd never experienced before and couldn't pinpoint. It certainly wasn't jealousy, as Anamaria had assumed; I'd felt that emotion enough times in my life to recognise it the moment it manifested itself in my heart.

Still pondering over the peculiar sentiment, I made my way further into the trees, finding that there were a handy set of sandy Pearl-sized footprints for me to follow.

It wasn't until I'd tripped over an inconveniently-placed tree root and flung out my arm to break my fall that I was able to decipher the foreign feeling.

When I'd stumbled, my right arm had instinctively reached out to help cushion the fall, as it were, whilst my left… My left hand had placed itself over my belly in an almost protective manner.

The emotion that I'd felt was concern: not concern for myself, which was something I was used to, but concern for another person.

Concern for a person who I didn't even know for certain actually existed.

**-x!x-**


	33. A Strange Sort Of Friendship

**Disclaimer:** I do not own L'Oréal. Just thought I'll tell you that.

**AN:** Just to make it clear, large sections of _italicised_ text indicates another language being spoken. In this case, French.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Two:** A Strange Sort Of Friendship_

The next time I'd laid eyes on Pearl occurred sooner than I'd expected; the little cherub had gotten her skirt snagged on the thorns of an exotic plant I couldn't name, and was struggling futilely to escape.

"Si-Si, it won't let me _go_!" she half-sniffled, half-implored, tugging on the red material one last time in growing despair before plopping down on the hydrated soil in a childish sulk, arms crossed over her bodice as she glared at the offending plant. "I've kicked, I've pulled, I've begged, I've bribed, I've insulted _and_ I've blackmailed, and it _still_ won't let me go free!"

"Verbal threats tend _not_ to work on vegetation, Pearl," I sympathised, crouching down beside her and closely examining the damage.

"…They would've worked if Papa had said it…" she corrected sullenly, brow furrowed in annoyance. I ignored her and set to work disentangling the skirt whilst she occasionally warned me not to rip or damage the article of clothing in any way, shape or form.

"I'm _being_ careful," I assured, giving the skirt one final twitch and shooting the child a victorious grin.

"Thank you, Si-Si," she sang, pulling the material out of my hands so she can assess the damage. "It's all _ripped_…" she whined, her blue eyes large and doleful.

"You have more clothes," I waved away, brushing my own skirt as I stood and offering her a helping hand. "You have lots of clothes; Jack really spoils you…"

"I know," she replied unashamedly, tossing her hair over her shoulder and tugging insistently on my hand. "Come on, Si-Si, there's that pretty waterfall over on the other side that I wanted to show you, remember?"

"Then why did you run off all by yourself?" I queried as I was dragged forward by the animated doll.

"You were talking with Anamaria, and I didn't want to disturb you," she explained sweetly. "Normally I would've just gone and annoyed Papa, but he likes that girl more than he likes me…" she trailed off, her pace slowing a little.

"Pearl?" I asked gently, halting in my tracks and effectively stopping her from continuing any further. She turned to look up at me questioningly, her eyes wide and woeful.

"What's wrong?" I questioned, crouching down in front of her.

"Papa _always_ ignores me and tells me to go away when there are women around," she began forlornly. "He was like that with you as well; do you remember when he went with me back to your room so I could get my book back?"

I nodded.

"After that, he told me never to see you again, not to bother you… And normally, I wouldn't have; I don't with most of his lady friends, but you were really nice, and…" She glanced woefully back to where Jack was no doubt still flirting with the anonymous woman that had magically appeared out of thin air. "And now he's doing it again… He said this morning that he'll teach me to swim, and then _she_ came along…"

I cupped her face in both of my hands, smiling into her sorrowful eyes. "Would you like me to teach you instead?"

Her melancholy instantly vanished as she beamed brightly, nodding enthusiastically and I laughed, kissing the tip of her nose.

"I don't want to swim in the sea, though," she told me as she skipped happily ahead, retracing her footsteps back to the waterfall she had visited earlier in the day whilst I was still blissfully unaware, asleep on my mattress. "I'm scared I'll get pulled out by the tide and drown…"

"Which is perfectly understandable," I agreed. "Pearl, you know that woman…"

"You mean the one Papa's been talking to all morning?" Pearl guessed. "The one with the long yellow hair and blue eyes that looks and acts like an angel?"

I stared down at her in surprise. "I thought you didn't like her."

"I don't," she admitted grudgingly. "But that's only because Papa likes her more than he likes me; I haven't really spoken to her, but she _does_ seems really nice, though. Papa found her and her brother and their friend asleep in the rum cache this morning."

"Oh, good for th—_what_ rum cache?" I pounced.

Pearl smiled serenely up at me. "When Papa had his ship stolen before I was born, he was rescued by a group of rumrunners, who'll only help him escape from the island he was marooned on if he'll work on their ship for a year, and then they'll drop him off in Tortuga. That's how he knew about this island. Papa knows about four or five different places in the Caribbean where rum is stored, you know. That's why he never buys any supply in port."

"That man is so cheap," I murmured to myself.

"Papa prefers the term 'economical' himself," Pearl happily informed me. "Anyway, he decided that because everybody's been so hard at work during the storm with making sure the _Black Pearl_'s seaworthy, the crew will only be doing minor repairs for today and tomorrow, and the evenings will be spent—"

"In total inebriation?" I finished.

"In a sense, I suppose…" she admitted.

"But about the woman…" I prodded. "How did she get here? Do you know?"

Pearl shook her head ruefully. "I don't know," she confessed. "Papa went to the cache, with a few sailors, like I said, and I followed, because I'm so sweet and lovable and I know how to pout, and they were all there…"

"Who were all there?"

"That lady and her brother, I think he was, and their captain, who was sleeping…"

"Great," I said unenthusiastically, before an idea struck me.

"Pearl, you know what an amazing, gifted, precocious, witty, observational, adorable little intellectual you are?"

"Yes…" she sang.

"Did it look like the woman was… attached to the captain? The other captain, I mean."

She furrowed her smooth forehead, her little lips pursed in concentration, before shaking her head, looking up at me in understanding. "Si-Si, I think Papa probably _will_ get her into bed tonight, you know." I couldn't help the involuntary start; try as might, I just couldn't get my head around the fact that Pearl knew more about… um, human interaction, than she perhaps should.

"Now what makes you say that?" I queried.

"Have you been watching her body language? She's such a slut…" At my confused look, she rolled her eyes, sighing in annoyance. "I grew up in a brothel, remember?"

"Perhaps it's best you don't advertise the fact," I said, stroking her silky hair and watching her rub her head against my hand in a playfully kittenish manner. Her hand reached up and clung firmly to my own digits, dragging me behind her as she toddled along to the lovely waterfall she was so intent on presenting to me.

"See?" she beamed, standing on her little toes to peer over an extremely large fern before gasping in horror and ducking down, her hands pressed tightly over her eyes. I looked down at her, curious at her reaction, before ducking my own head under a tree branch, gasping at the celestial sight that greeted me.

The sun was positioned directly above the charmingly picturesque apparition, ensuring that a waterfall of flowing gold trickled down smooth, skilfully carved marble, droplets of silver splashing down from the glowing cascade into the rippling pool below.

Then the man dived underwater, and the pretty waterfall that had so enraptured Pearl came into focus, and whilst it _was_ a testament to the wondrous creations that can be wrought by nature, I personally was more interested in the submerged male with hair that could have been taken straight out of a shampoo advert than I was a trickle splashing down the side of a large rock.

A high-pitched shriek of terror snapped me back to reality; I looked down at Pearl in puzzlement, seeing her simultaneously jump in shock and squeak in surprise, clinging tightly to my skirt.

"What's the matter?" I asked as the child buried her face into the material.

"There's a man…" Pearl told me, her voice muffled. "And he's screaming very loudly, and he's _naked_, and I think I've gone deaf and blind all at once…"

"Pearl, you are not deaf," I sighed in exasperation.

"Yes, I am," she retorted sulkily.

"You can hear me, can't you?"

"…No…" She adamantly shook her head.

"_What do you think you're _doing" I heard a hysterical cry from somewhere in the direction of the pool. Pearl and I glanced at each other, the both of us caught off guard by the amount of French that was being tossed carelessly about in the air. "_How dare you just stand there—watching me—bathing—_undressed—"

I ducked under the fern, clinging tightly to Pearl, although a small voice was calmly telling me that there really was no point in hiding, as clearly I'd already been spotted.

"_You pervert! Peeping Tom! Celibate—_"

"_Oh, Flavio…" _I heard a distinctly calmer male voice sigh in exasperation. There was a splash, followed by a walloping sound, a yelp of pain, and another, larger splash. My curiosity roused, I straightened slightly, peering over the emerald fronds much like Pearl had done.

Now there were _two_ gorgeous wet men wrestling in the pool: the newcomer, who was a tanned, brown-haired gentleman dressed (much to my disappointment) in a shirt and breeches, clearly in the middle of attempting to drown the first man with the long, blond, L'Oréal-advert locks who had taken to screaming about perverted peeping Toms.

"_Flavio?_" the dark-headed of the two asked, allowing the blond to surface, coughing and sputtering. "_Are you alright? Are you… saner now?_"

"_Murderer!_" Flavio coughed out, a little drowning incident apparently having done little to deter him. "_Murderous, woman-beating _fiend_! Ow!_" he whined as the murderous woman-beating fiend slapped him harshly across the cheek.

"_Get a grip of yourself!_" the unnamed man barked at him. "_Flavio, are you listening?_" he added on registering his friend's shocked expression.

"_You… you… _slapped _me…_" Flavio stammered before suddenly bursting into tears, leaning into the other man's stunned neck. "_I've never been slapped before…_"

"_That's a lie, Flavio. Aren't you able to remember Maria and Katharina?_"

"_Yes, but those nuns slap _everybody" Flavio sulked. "_Brides of Christ by day, Whores of the Vatican by night… you know how it goes…_"

"_Well, what about Angelina?_" the other man continued, uncomfortably patting Flavio's shoulder as he continued to hysterically sob. "_And Signora Elisabetta?_"

It was at this point that Pearl released me from her vicelike grip, peering over the fern with me the better to view the two conversing French gentlemen. "What a whore that man is," she whispered to me. "Do you think he's in Papa's _Guide_?"

I patted her patronisingly on the shoulder. "Pearl, the _Whoremonger's Guide To **London**_ only lists _women_," I reminded.

She tossed her head back, snorting in superiority. "Clearly, _you've_ never read it," she commented easily, focusing her attention back on the bickering men.

"_Well, I've never been slapped by a _man _before…_" Flavio stubbornly insisted.

"_Oh Flavio…_" the slapper comforted, patting his back. "_Your memory's defective again; do you not recollect Nasir, the Moroccan eunuch?_"

"…_Well, I've never been slapped by a _Frenchman _before,_" Flavio threw in. "_Ha! Try to beat _that_, Jean._"

"_Louis-Henri de Godrin,_" the other man stated calmly, causing Flavio to gasp in surprise.

"_How did you know about _him_? I haven't even published the love letters yet, I'm still using them for blackmail—_"

"_Mon Dieu_," the man identified as Jean cursed in disgust, throwing the babbling blond away with such force that he was once again submerged in the water.

"Why is he being so violent?" I whispered to Pearl, who shrugged.

"Maybe they're always like this," Pearl whispered back. "They were still sleeping this morning, you know, and so peacefully as well…"

"_Do you know where your sister is?_"

I glanced at Pearl, who mouthed at me, "That lady Papa likes."

"_No,_" I heard a choking voice answer. Returning my gaze, I could now see that Jean, upon seeing that drowning had absolutely no effect on his companion's verbal diarrhoea, had now resorted to strangling the loquacious Flavio. "_She was already… gone when I… woke up…_"

With a curse, the cantankerous Frenchman released Flavio's throat and noisily stormed out of the pool, muttering under his breath whilst Flavio was mercilessly dragged along by his hair. I noticed out of the corner of my eye Pearl avert her own blue orbs once more just as the swimming blond was once again exposing himself.

"_Get dressed,_" Jean ordered. "_There's a ship here; I'm certain she's flirting with some helpless sunburnt male, like the shameless coquette that she is…_"

"_How many times must I tell you, my little dumpling, that my sister is not currently in the possession of an abnormal sailor fetish?_" Flavio sang, pulling on his breeches. "_She used to be, but she's gone off of them now, and good riddance to _that _temporary decade of madness. I, personally, can't abide sailors; never could, and never will. Many years ago, I'd made a vow of never looking twice at a sailor, especially if he's a pirate: they're the worst of the lot, that's what my dear ma used to tell us, which is why I've sworn never to develop feelings for a pirate other than a polite wariness, which for me is especially true if he's a pirate captain._

"_Not that there's anything _wrong _with pirates, mind you; I've nothing against pirates personally. I mean, I'm a pirate, you're a pirate, hell, our darling Kitten's a shameless seafarer herself, and damn proud of it too. And, you know, they're fine for working alongside with, and they _can _be good conversationalists, but they're such terrible bed mates…_"

It suddenly occurred to me that Pearl _could_, in fact, understand French. Not only that, but her father _was_, in fact, a sailor. She didn't actually need to know that her father was, by occupation, bad in bed. Well, at least the description of 'seafarer' could be applied to a large amount of the world's population; there must've been a positive side to that…

"_Do you know what kind of a man Kitten _does _like, though?_" Flavio asked, his chattering clearly incessant.

"_I can't say it's ever crossed my mind—_"

"_She likes them _really _dark, you know,_ " he confided rather loudly, buttoning up his worn and creased shirt. "_It's why you don't have a cat in hell's chance—you're too _pasty—"

I could see, even from this distance crouching behind a shrub, Jean's face contort in annoyed exasperation. To call him pasty was to admit one was blind; true, he wasn't as dark as Jack, but his skin certainly had a faint, golden glow. If anybody was going to be called pasty around here, it should be Flavio himself. Still, his pallor didn't detract from his appearance.

"—_And she likes them a bit on the short side as well, come to think of it. It's rather odd, isn't it? Most women—myself included—_" I furrowed my brow in confusion, wondering if my French needed a little more work than I'd assumed "_like them tall and imposing, but she likes midgets. Not dwarves, but _midgets_. She's very specific on that point. Even so, they can't be too short; _tall _midgets are what she prefers. Don't you think that rather odd?_" Flavio was now wringing out his hair, using his fingers to brush out invisible tangles.

"_And she likes gold teeth as well; midgets with dark colouring and fake teeth. Oh, and facial hair—Jean, my pumpkin, I'm sorry, but you're far too clean-shaven—facial hair. And kohl around hypnotic brown eyes that you can simply _drown _into. And for reasons unknown to all but herself, she likes her men to not only be midgets with dark colouring and golden teeth and facial hair and kohl-rimmed eyes, but she also likes them to be perpetually drunk, with a womanly sway to their hips whenever they walk, like this—_" he demonstrated, staggering drunkenly about in a manner uncannily like Jack's. Which, considering how I doubted he'd yet to meet him, was quite an achievement.

"_Oh, and she loves it if they're always boasting and telling stories of escapades, accompanied by wild gesticulations, naturally, that's what she likes—you're far too modest for her refined tastes, my little sugarplum,_" he added, reaching up to pinch Jean's cheek affectionately and receiving a glare for his troubles. "N_ow, where was I? Ah yes: she's fond of men that are continually inebriated, story-weaving, gesticulating midgets with dark colouring, gold teeth, facial hair, kohl-rimmed brown eyes, and who walks like a whore on the make._

"_I've told her _so _many times to get over this eunuch inclination of hers…_"

My hands went to my mouth in an attempt of smothering the shocked laughter that was threatening to explode, whilst Pearl straightened, clearly offended that this Flavio character had inadvertently called her father a eunuch. I knelt down beside the affronted child, my arms wrapping tightly about her thin little body, my face buried into her shoulder whilst my own shook with barely-contained mirth.

"The _nerve_ of that man," Pearl burst out once their footsteps had faded away. "Calling _my_ Papa a eunuch. Like _he_ can talk!"

"Believe me, Pearl," I told her, feeling myself beginning to giggle once more, "_he's_ not of the emasculated variety…"

"And _you_!" she screeched, rounding on me in an unanticipated ferocity that made my smile immediately disappear. "How _dare_ you betray Papa!"

"…I'm sorry?"

"You betrayed him," she insisted, nodding seriously. "Looking at another naked man behind his back…"

"But—But—But you—Well, _he's_—" I spluttered, but Pearl was not to be so easily swayed, raising her hand to silence me.

"Didn't you hear them?" she enquired. "_She's_ a man-eater! A seductress, no, a _succubus_, _possibly_ with a sailor or eunuch fetish. Papa doesn't stand a chance. Poor Papa," she sighed in despair, and I wondered whether or not she was subtly insulting her parent.

"_He_, on the other hand," she spat spitefully, leaving no doubt in mind as to who she was referring to, "is just some pretty blond with some pretty eyes who can't shut up. _And_ I'll bet you he's a female impersonator too," she added, clearly hoping to cripple my abrupt attraction towards the man named Flavio.

I stared down at her in confusion, whilst she defiantly glared back, before closing her eyes and sighing.

"Si-Si," she pouted, suddenly changing tact. She reached up to clasp both of my hands in her own small palms, looking desperately into my eyes. "You _must_ resist his evil, floral-scented allure."

She was starting to sound a little like Father Dickinson.

"Pearl," I asked in confusion, "exactly why do you care so much?"

There was a pause, and then my hands were released as Pearl stepped away, continuously wringing her hands. "Care?" She asked wildly. "Me, _care_? About _Papa's_ romantic relationships? That's so funny!" And she gave a loud, false laugh that made me narrow my eyes.

"Pearl's not worried about Si-Si's relationship with Papa in the slightest," she babbled in a babyish voice. "Pearl doesn't secretly wish that Si-Si and Papa will fall in love and get married and buy Pearl lots of presents and spoil Pearl for the rest of Pearl's life. That wasn't what Pearl had in mind from the very beginning, _no_ it wasn't…" She finished her little speech with a high giggle that turned into something very much like a sob.

"Pearl…" I began suspiciously, "you're not by any chance _lying_, are you?"

"No! No no no no no, of course not, Si-Si," Pearl insisted, her hand going over her heart, her blue eyes widening innocently. "Pearl most certainly _isn't_ lying. Pearl is _never_ mendacious, not even when Pearl perhaps should be. And Pearl's not nervous, no not at all. And Pearl's most certainly not hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobic either!"

"…I… wasn't even thinking of accusing you of that last one, actually," I told her.

"Oh, that's good," Pearl sighed in relief. "Pearl is happy to hear Si-Si say that, Pearl really, _really_ is." Her pretty face contorted in pain, and her hands flew up to rest on either side of her head with a squeak of horror.

"Why can't Pearl remember any English pronouns!" she wailed in despair, sinking to her knees.

"Pearl!" I yelped in panic. "Please don't even _think_ of pulling your lovely hair out!"

She froze, looking up at me.

"Um, Pearl?" I asked her instead. "How about we just forget about all of this for a while and I teach you how to swim, huh? How'd you like that, honey?"

Pearl beamed brightly up at me, nodding her head enthusiastically, and leapt to her feet in response. "Oh _yes_, Sierra," she exclaimed enthusiastically. "Pearl would like that very much…"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** So? Any comments?


	34. Murder Most Wet

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Three:** Murder Most Wet_

Pearl was absolutely terrified of water: apparently, when Pearl was an even littler girl than she was now, she had the unfortunate misfortunate of being dropped into a bathtub and left to drown.

After five minutes or so of careful questioning, it finally emerged that actually Pearl, on a previous bathing occasion, had accidentally gotten soap into her sweet blue eyes, and was so anxious of repeating the ordeal that she had submerged her face completely in the water and had flatly refused to surface until Beth had dragged her out.

"…So really, it was all Mama's fault, as you can see," she concluded solemnly, standing a few feet away from the edge of the pool clad in only her shift, as was I; even though the both of us were female, there was a certain moral line that I'd decided was best not to be crossed. She was only a child, after all, and even though she was stunningly beautiful and extremely outspoken, she was actually quite shy.

"You're blaming Beth for the fact that you tried to drown yourself?" I'd replied, my eyebrow raised as I sat on a boulder noticeably closer to the pool, the sound of the waterfall trickling gently in the background.

She glared at me, crossing her arms in defiance. "Fine, take _her_ side," she said with a pout that instantly made my resolve melt. "That's exactly what Papa did when I told him…"

I shook my head, a smile on my lips, and stood from my perch, moving closer to the water and beckoning her to follow my lead with my hand. Her eyes widened ever so slightly, and she shook her head, arms wrapping protectively about herself.

"Pearl, it's shallower near the edges, see?" I coaxed, plunging into the icy water with a surprised gasp that sent Pearl into a state of blind panic.

"Si-Si, are you alright!" she shrieked in concern, shrinking further away from the water. "Is it hurting you? It's trying to kill you, isn't it? The water's trying to drown my Si-Si!"

"Pearl, I'm not dying!" I called back to her, my legs beginning to adjust to the lower temperature.

"Then why did you do that?" she yelped. "Why did you make that noise? Does it hurt? Is the water hurting you? You should get out straight away before it pulls you under and drowns you!"

"Pearl, the water is _not_ some murderous, sadistic, homicidal demon intent on drowning me," I insisted, suddenly noticing that the hem of my shift had gotten a little wet. "The water is calm and peaceful and welcoming and loving; at least it would be if it was actually alive…"

"Then why did you make that noise?" she asked again, looking distrustfully at the waterfall.

"It was just a little colder than I'd expected, that's all," I answered honestly.

This little piece of information did absolutely nothing whatsoever to ease Pearl's anxieties.

"Cold?" she parroted, eyes widening yet again as she literally leapt further away. "_Cold?_ You expect me to learn to swim in _cold_ water?"

"Cold water isn't a bad thing, Pearl," I told her, attempting to wave her closer. "It's actually quite a relief; it's a nice change from the normal temperature of the Caribbean. It was just a little bit of a surprise, that's all…"

"Si-Si, get out of there before it kills you!" she repeated. "It's still trying to kill you, you know—it's trying to lure you into a false sense of security and then surprise you to death _as well_ as drown you!"

"I'm not going to die of cold here, Pearl," I said, glancing happily around at the tropical island paradise. "And neither will you…"

"Now you sound just like Papa…" she sulked. "Aren't you worried that I'll catch pneumonia and wither away? What if I get frostbite, and blood stops flowing to my feet, and all my little toes fall off?"

"Pearl," I repeated yet again, "it's the _Caribbean_…"

"_What's your point?_" she wailed in despair, unsubtly beginning to back away, shaking her dark head adamantly. She abandoned all pretence when I'd stepped back onto the moistened soil, flying away from me with a small scream of terror, before stopping and wrapping her small arms around the trunk of a tree as best she could, soft cheek resting on the rough bark. The message was clear: Pearl Sparrow refused to be moved.

"Oh Pearl, please…" I begged, not at all enjoying the odd mixture of mud and sand seeping between my toes.

"Pearl has extreme hydrophobia!" she squeaked, pressing herself closer to the oversized shrub, if that was possible.

I shook my head in adoring exasperation. "If you think that I'll hesitate in walking over there, grabbing you, and dumping you headfirst into this pool…" I half-threatened.

Pearl's response was to let out a squeal of terror, and for the next two minutes or so she attempted, with little success, to scramble up her newfound, oversized comfort blanket, a mission she grudgingly abandoned when she eventually fell into a heap on the rustling floor.

Now more amused than ever, I began to move towards her with every intention of wrapping my arms about her waist and depositing her playfully into the pool so that the child can see for herself that she had nothing to worry about in terms of drowning water demons, but I had barely taken a step when she suddenly renewed her efforts, springing up to her feet and once again clawing at the tree. Only this time, she was now attempting to grab hold of the lowest of the branches and swing herself up.

A plan which very probably might have stood a chance of success, had she not been so small. The end result was that she spent a good five minutes or so jumping up and down as though the soles of her feet were attached to springs, her outstretched fingertips brushing against small green leaves.

You had to admire her determination.

The little Pearl was so intent on climbing permanently out of my reach, and so desperate to achieve her goal, that she didn't even notice when two strong hands wrapped about her little waist mid-jump, easily lifting and placing her onto the elusive, oversized twig; indeed, she was so delighted at having finally achieved her aim, she let out a squeak of joy, looking about her as though viewing her surroundings for the first time, a delighted smile plastered across her features.

That is, until her gaze drifted down, and her grin effectively vanished, fear swiftly returning to her wide blue eyes. She immediately pressed herself against the wide, sturdy bough, arms and legs wrapped firmly around the leaf-decorated platform.

It wasn't until _after_ she'd rearranged her body into this position that she came nose-to-nose with a softly-smiling Jack Sparrow.

"I suppose," he began wryly, whilst Pearl stared into his eyes in shock, "that it wouldn't be entirely unfair to assume that you'd temporarily forgotten that you had a mortal fear of heights?"

Pearl swallowed once, her eyes slightly averted as a faint flush coloured her cheeks, and Jack laughed, grabbing his little girl and prying her off of the branch and into his unusually affectionate embrace. His laughing eyes met mine, and he grinned at me in a manner that told me he knew exactly what I'd been attempting and was grateful for it. I smiled hesitantly back, uncertain of how to behave about him. He frowned ever so slightly at my expression, but otherwise displayed no signs of noticing my tentative reaction.

"Well, hello again," an unrecognisable female voice spoke. I tore my eyes away from Jack's intense stare, focusing instead on the woman behind him. There was no mistaking that long blonde hair and perfect skin and gemlike eyes: this was the woman Jack had been conversing with on the beach not so long ago.

I was so overwhelmed at seeing her standing in front of me that it took me a moment to register that she was, in fact, addressing Pearl. When I eventually did, I saw Pearl bashfully waving a greeting back before burrowing her head shyly into her father's shoulder. The woman laughed quietly, a friendly smile gracing her features as she murmured something to Pearl that made the child sit up a little straighter in her father's arms, but I paid the trio no mind, gathering my small pile of clothing and dressing myself as inconspicuously as possible.

A hand fell gently onto my shoulder, preventing me from pulling on my stay. I looked up in curiosity to see Jack staring at me. Behind him, I saw his new blonde friend kneeling beside Pearl, apparently immersed in conversation.

"What's the matter?" I asked him, furrowing my brow in confusion.

"Where are you going?" he asked in return. I shrugged, pulling my shoulder out of his loose grip, and began to lace up the bodice.

"Sierra," he said in a voice that made me momentarily freeze, looking up at him in surprise.

"Yes…?"

He paused, uncertain of what to say. Actually, I didn't think even _he_ knew what he wanted to say.

"Did you see anyone?" he finally settled for.

"What do you mean?" I asked, knowing full well he'd been struggling with something else entirely. Who'd have thought Captain Jack Sparrow occasionally suffered from speaking difficulties? "Who are you looking for?"

"Catriona's—that wench standing over there," he replied, a hand waving in the general direction of the blonde, "—brother, Fabio or something along those lines—"

"You mean Flavio," I corrected almost automatically, making him smile pleasantly at me.

"Ah, so you have clapped your lovely blue eyes on him then," he replied. It was more a blatantly pathetic compliment than it was a question. "Good—don't s'pose you know where he and their little friend went, did you?"

Before I'd had the chance to reply in the negative, he'd swung an arm about my shoulders, not-so-gently dragging me back to the two talking females.

"Wonderful news, Cate," he'd interrupted, his grip tightening on my shoulder. "Sierra here's seen your mislaid sibling—_and_ she knows exactly where he went," he'd added, subtly pinching me as I began to protest.

Cate's face flushed with immediate relief. "That's wonderful," she replied, standing straighter and brushing down her breeches in such a way so as to allow Jack an unimpeded view down her loose, low-cut blouse. "I don't like leaving Flavio—that's my brother—with Jean-François for too long; he always ends up physically damaged in one way or another…"

"But I—_ow_!" I protested as Jack once again tightened his grip. Annoyed, I retaliated by stamping on his booted foot with my heel, emitting a yelp of surprise and pain.

"I'm sorry, honey," I simpered, pouting at him ever so sweetly before turning back to face a confused Catriona. "Would you excuse us for a moment?"

I pulled him a small distance away, crossing my arms and glaring at him.

"What?" he asked, his face a mask of false innocence.

"What are you doing?" I asked suspiciously.

His brown eyes widened further. "Doing?" he repeated, trying and succeeding in appearing bewildered. Of course, _I_, being the wonderfully brilliant and talented mastermind that I was, wasn't fooled.

"Yes, what are you trying to pull?" I elaborated, stepping closer to him and peering up into his eyes.

"Trying to—"

I swiftly raised my hand, my palm hovering threateningly close to his cheek, and he was immediately silenced.

"Don't try that with me. Now, why are you so desperate to send me off with this Katrina?"

"_Catriona_," Jack corrected a little too swiftly, causing me to raise my eyebrow.

"_Why_?" I asked again.

"Well…" he began, pausing, brow furrowed in thought. "The situation, you see…" Another hesitation. "I…"

"_Jack_…" I sighed when no answer was forthcoming. "_Why_ are you pairing me up with her?"

The sound of my exasperated voice was clearly what his mind needed to spring into action.

"I just thought that… the two of you would, ah… fancy a bit of female company…" he remarked unconvincingly. There was something about his tone of voice and nervous face that made me narrow my eyes.

"You're thinking of something dirty, aren't you?" I remarked bluntly, causing his uneasy expression to vanish, only to be replaced with a look of genuine bewilderment.

"I'm _certainly_ not thinking anything of the sort!" he snapped, remarkably resembling a middle-class Victorian woman, scandalised expression, indignant, high-pitched tone and all.

There was a pause as he reconsidered his reaction, in which I fought back an amused smile.

"What, exactly, were you thinking of that you thought that I was thinking of when I in fact was not thinking of anything of the particular nature at all?"

Was it disturbing that I'd actually anticipated a reply of the kind?

"Why is it that you immediately presume that what I thought you were thinking of and that you weren't thinking of it at all, when you've no idea of the nature of what I thought you were thinking of in the first place?" I countered, getting a secret pleasure in watching his eyes widen in surprise that not only was I able to follow him, but I was also able to deliver a reply just as confusing.

Another pause in which Jack hesitated, his eyes darting back to where his daughter was no doubt animatedly explaining to the blonde the dark, desperate plots of the water demons and of how they tricked you into entering into their wet, watery domains before unfurling their long, curved talons and slowly crush the air out of your lungs…

You know, maybe Pearl had a point after all. It can't hurt to be cautious, can it?

And that's when it hit me: the simple, blindingly obvious reason as to why Jack wanted me to escort this Catharina on her tedious mission to locate her gorgeous brother.

"Why are you smiling like that?" Jack asked me suspiciously, eyes narrowed in distrust.

"You want to be alone with Pearl, don't you?" I asked.

"Don't be so ridiculous," Jack chastised me. "I'm only teaching her to swim."

"That may be," I countered, a smile tugging at my lips, "but you want to teach her by _yourself_."

"You'll distract her," he defended hotly, although I couldn't help but notice how he was deliberately avoiding my eyes.

"You're _jealous_ of how much time I get to spend with her, aren't you?" I interrogated.

He raised both of his hands in a placating gesture. "I'm just teaching her a basic survival skill—"

"Yeah, _alone_!" I maintained, unable to keep the glee out of my voice.

"Oh, shut up," he said to me, grabbing my upper arm and dragging me back before I exploded with happiness.

"Oh my God—am I being told that Captain Jack Sparrow _is_, in fact, a good, caring, affectionate, _loving_ father?"

He released my arm, rounding suddenly to face me, index finger raised threateningly in front of my face. "That's just one step too far," he growled, seeming insulted by my genuine compliment.

"And you gave Caitlin—"

"_Catriona._"

"Whatever—the idea to go looking for her brother, didn't you?" I deciphered, which, judging from his expression, was correct.

"That's a _lie_," Jack insisted. I was certain that he would have said more, had I not taken the opportunity to fling my arms about his neck and strangle him.

"Jack, I can just _kiss_ you!" I exclaimed when he'd eventually pried my arms away from his neck.

"You don't always have to fight your feelings," Jack enlightened, pulling me back towards him. I smiled widely at him, snuggling into his arms.

"But seriously," I murmured, closing my eyes as I rested my head on his shoulder, "you're really…"

"Really what?" he asked, drawing away to look at me once more.

"Well, Pearl was really upset when she saw you, um, flirting with… can I call her 'Cat' instead?" The question was, of course, just a distraction; seeing Jack with another woman certainly tugged unpleasantly at my own heart.

"'Cate' would be more orthodox, yes," Jack permitted, blissfully oblivious to the inner workings of my mind.

"Right, Cate—her—um… She was just… really looking forward to spending some time with you…" I trailed off, meeting his concentrated gaze.

"I see," was all he'd said, his eyes avidly searching my expression for something.

"She just… misses you so much, you know?" I continued to ramble, feeling more and more uncomfortable under his meticulous scrutiny with each passing second. "You've done so much for her, and I'm certain you'll do more in the future… It's just sometimes, simply just _doing_ something for a loved one just isn't enough to make them feel, make them _know_ that you care, even if you do. If you don't show a person that you love them—even if you spend your entire life ensuring that they're safe and well and happy, even if deep, deep down you love them more than anything in the world… How will they know if you don't show it?"

A still, almost philosophical silence fell between us. Eventually, I tore my eyes away from his gaze, busying myself with the laces of my stay.

"We're still talking about Pearl, aren't we?" Jack said, his hands gently prying the laces out of my fingers as he helped me tackle the annoying item of clothing.

I kept my lashes lowered. "Yes. Of course we are. Who else could I be referring to?"

"A high percentage of the human population, I'd wager," Jack remarked casually, pulling away and starting back towards the pool where our respective charges awaited, apparently unaware of the significance of what had just occurred.

"What's with the sudden rush?" I asked, secretly glad for the change in topic.

"Well, if Pearl feels that I've been neglecting her as badly as you feel—that she has," he added swiftly, "then every second counts, doesn't it? I need to make certain to increase my affection as soon as physically possible, before—well…"

"Before it's too late," I filled in, falling into stride with him.

He glanced at me from the corner of his eye. "Exactly—before it's too late and I lose her forever."

I raised an eyebrow in surprise as he extended his hand invitingly, which I took without question.

"Who said you'll lose her forever?" I asked as the trickling of the waterfall grew steadily louder.

"Nobody did," Jack replied. "At least, you certainly didn't. 'Tis just a risk I was able to figure out for myself—and one I'd rather not take, if I can help it. Although," he added, drawing to a halt once more and forcing me to look up at him, "to be completely honest, I don't even know if I've ever had her to lose." The black intensity of his gaze left no doubt in my mind as to who he was actually referring to.

"Maybe you did," I replied honestly. "But then again, maybe you didn't—I really don't know."

"Do you think you'll be able to make some sense of it soon?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. I'll try."

"That's all that I wanted to hear," Jack approved. "That you'll try. I understand."

I smiled up at him then. "Thank you."

Jack grinned back at me, his hand reaching out for my fingers once more, and I knew the moment was shattered: Captain Jack Sparrow, the stumbling, loquacious rogue that everybody knew and loved had returned.

"Enough of this playful banter," he said, pulling me forward once more. "Time for some of us to confront our greatest fears—particularly those involving the Sparrows and almost-certain drowning."

"I assume you're referring to Pearl and the water demons?" I asked, my light tone slightly forced.

He looked at me from the corner of his brown eyes, actively considering the query.

"Well, yes," he'd said, "but I'm more worried about myself."

"You mean _you're_ scared of the water demons as well?" I teased.

He shot me a disbelieving look. "I meant I'm scared that _I'll_ drown _her_. She can be a very frustrating child at times."

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Many, many, many apologies for the delay—but I hope it's worth it. And for those few of you who are wondering, Flavio and his little friend returns in the next chapter. They would've been in this chapter, if they hadn't had been so… normal…


	35. Sense And Sensitivity

**AN:** So sorry for the delay—I'm getting worse, aren't I? Oh, and Flavio isn't REALLY in this chapter—I'm just setting everything up for a cheap joke later, and working on a little character development. Anyway…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Four:** Sense And Sensitivity_

"I never knew children could be so sweet," Cate said suddenly as we picked our way through the forest, clearly hoping to break the strained silence between us.

"Pearl's special," I shrugged off, attempting to keep my answers to as close as monosyllabic as possible without appearing rude and failing at both miserably.

"…Yes. Well, that's what _all_ parents think, isn't it?" she started up again.

I didn't even reply, carefully picking my way through that odd, revolting mixture of mud and sand I hoped never to experience again.

"She _is_ very sweet, though," Cate said yet again, her tone of voice betraying her discomfort. "You must be very relieved."

"Sorry?" I said whilst finding myself wondering if I should just allow her to believe I _was_ Pearl's mother. _Yes_, I decided immediately. It'll prevent any future complications from arising: complications that included meddlesome enquiries of Pearl's _real_ mother, prying questions concerning why, exactly, _I_ was onboard, and hopefully force her from encroaching on Jack. That was my main priority, although a small voice in my mind was telling me to prepare for inevitable failure.

"So shy and quiet and… obedient," she was saying. "I suppose she never shows either you or Jack any, um, sass, am I right?"

I tripped over my skirt, but Cate's hands on my waist prevented me from falling completely. It would have been a lot easier to hate her if she'd just let me tumble gracelessly to the ground.

"Thank you," I muttered angrily through gritted teeth, straightening and twisting myself out of her helpful hands. I could see her confusion in her eyes, and something akin to hurt, but paid her no mind.

"You must be very proud, in any case," Cate continued, and I was callously pleased to hear that she sounded a little discouraged by both my lack of dialogue and gratitude.

Five minutes of awkward silence passed between us, broken only by the sound of our feet, the rustling of our clothing, and Cate's occasional sigh.

"I hope you realise I don't actually know where I'm going," I said, glancing back at her.

"Well, I _had_ thought that Jack appeared a tad hasty to be rid of us," she admitted, giving me a smile that was clearly meant to win me over. I grimaced in return, hating how inescapably pretty she looked as she did so, and the beam faded somewhat to be replaced with another look of uncomfortable uncertainty.

"Why did he do that?" she asked me, indicating with her hand that we go another direction.

"I don't know," I confessed. "I think he just wanted to spend time alone with Pearl for a change."

"What do you mean?" she said, clearly seizing the opportunity for conversation.

"Well…" I began, uncertain what I had actually meant. "He doesn't get to spend a lot of time with her…"

"Oh. Yes; yes, of course," she agreed, shaking her blonde head in agreement. "Completely understandable…"

Another moment of unadulterated gaucherie passed between us.

"Um, do you actually have any idea where we're going?" I asked as I followed her.

She glanced back at me, holding back a low-hanging branch. "I just thought we'll see how the swimming lessons are going," she said, her tone light. "It's not as though there's anything else we can do on this inconveniently-placed spit of land, is there?"

I shrugged, following her, and realised that I was back at the spot where I had first spotted Flavio and Jean water-wrestling. Cate and I could clearly see a shirtless Jack trying and failing to pry his daughter off of his neck.

"Pearl," he snapped, his patience thin, "I can't teach you to swim if you don't actually get into the water…"

"But I'll drown," she wailed. "The demons will grab me and hold me under—"

"For the last time, Pearl," Jack growled, "there _are_ no water demons!"

Cate frowned, tugging at my sleeve, her brow furrowed in confusion. "Water demons?" she asked, her voice quiet.

I shook my head. "Don't ask," I whispered back, my eyes returning to the two bickering Sparrows. "Just keep quiet and don't disturb them.

More silence as we watched Jack attempting to explain to Pearl that water demons were a myth Beth had conjured up to keep her precious daughter away from the docks.

"You're not married, are you?"

The sudden question made my head snap to the side.

"Sorry?"

She reached forward and grabbed my left hand, brandishing my ring-lacking fingers almost triumphantly in front of my face. I couldn't help but notice how she had a few small, simple rings decorating her own slender fingers. "I didn't mean to be rude," she said. "It's just—well, you have a child together, and you all seem to be quite close…"

"What's your point?" I asked suspiciously.

"Well, it's just a little… It must be very upsetting," she said suddenly, changing tact.

"I'm _sorry_?"

"Well, I'm assuming that you must be a little hurt, being labelled Jack Sparrow's whore everywhere you go," she elaborated uncompromisingly. "And I can't help but wonder if he actually cares about…" She'd trailed off deliberately, a faint, almost cruel smile on her beautiful features. She had abandoned all pretences of amiability now; she knew I could see right through her.

I narrowed my eyes at her, meeting her gaze defiantly, the both of us turning away at the sound of Pearl's squeak of fear, followed swiftly by Jack's cursing, and a large splash.

"For Christ's sake, Pearl!" the pirate sputtered as he'd emerged, glaring at the wet child standing with her little hands clasped sheepishly behind her back. "You've had your fun, now will you stop being so bloody difficult!"

Pearl's back was to us, her dark hair sparkling in the sunlight from the moisture, so I couldn't see her expression, but judging by how Jack squeezed his eyelids shut in exasperation and submerged once more in apparent despair, she was pouting in her irresistible way.

"Papa?" Pearl squeaked worriedly, peering into the not-so-murky depths. A hand shot out, intentionally splashing the little girl. "_Papa_!" she reprimanded, and I was certain she'd indignantly stamped her foot.

I pursed my lips, reaching a decision, and grabbed Catriona's hand, leading her away from the touching, jubilant scene.

"What are you doing?" she hissed at me, glancing back to the waterfall in longing.

"Just thought it'll be best to grant the captain's wish and give them some privacy, for once," I justified, dragging her back in what I hoped was the direction of the beach, spinning on my heel to face her once more and releasing her wrist once the happy sounds of laughter and splashing had faded away, silently cursing my timing when I'd realised that about an inch of my shoes were buried in sticky, disgusting brown mud. However, I stood my ground, looking defiantly up at Catriona and attempting to look as dignified as possible.

"I know what you're trying to do," I told her, attempting to keep my footing in the treacherously slippery mud whilst appearing unruffled and completely at ease.

"I beg your pardon?" she asked, looking towards my feet and then back into my eyes. "Don't you want to move from there—?"

"I'll be fine," I reassured her swiftly, attempting to move away from her proffered hand and losing my balance in the process.

"What stupid point are you trying to prove?" she asked, grabbing my wrist as I slipped and swiftly pulling me back onto somewhat dry ground. I hated how rapidly I was apparently becoming indebted to her.

"Don't change the subject," I commanded, looking down at my leather shoes in distaste before glaring into her blue eyes and crossing my arms in annoyance. "I _know_ what you're doing," I repeated.

She just stared at me in confusion, clearly wondering about the state of my sanity. "Could you please expand on that?"

I threw my hands up in frustration, turning and flouncing in another direction through the trees, the soft sound of boots thumping gently on the ground telling me I was being followed.

"Wait—um, Sienna, is it?"

My already tested patience shattered, and I whirled around, making her start in surprise, stumbling to a halt.

"_Sierra_," I enunciated carefully. "_See-air-rah_!"

She held up her pretty white hands in a placating gesture. "I'm most sincerely sorry," she apologised, looking genuinely repentant. "I didn't know that you were so sensitive—Jack gave me the impression that you were rather, ah, blasé himself…"

I stared at her, my mouth slightly open in shock.

"_Sensitive_?" I repeated incredulously, taking a faintly staggering step back. "I—I am not _sensitive_…"

She hesitantly raised a hand, looking like a shy schoolgirl uncertain if she'd had the right answer. "I beg to differ—Are you alright?" she asked in concern as, without any advance warning whatsoever, I suddenly burst into tears, my head slumping forward, arms wrapped protectively about my body.

I sniffled, looking up to see her beside me, a hand hovering hesitantly near my shoulder. "There, there," she murmured sympathetically, patting my hand instead. "Just, ah, let it all out…"

"I am not sensitive," I sobbed before impulsively throwing myself into her arms, causing her to stumble slightly.

"My God," I heard her mutter in disgust, "she's just as bad as Flavio…"

I pulled away, my momentary grief immediately replaced by indignant anger, and saw her swallow apprehensively.

"I'm sorry," I smiled sardonically, "could you explain that little comment of yours?"

"_What_ little comment?" she asked nervously.

I laughed softly, a small voice in my head calmly informing me that I'd lost my mind. "You _know_ what comment," I said shrewdly.

She shrugged uneasily. "I just meant that your… disposition's a little… precarious…"

I placed my hands on my hips, directing every particle of hatred in my body towards her worried eyes. "I have my reasons," I said frostily, unconsciously placing my hand protectively over my stomach once more.

She looked at me through narrowed eyes before her gaze slowly drifted to my still-flat belly. I crossed my arms uneasily, not liking the calculating, analytical expression on her face. To my relief, she didn't voice her suspicions, instead shaking her head, looking about our surroundings.

"Where on earth could they have gotten to?" she wondered aloud.

As if to answer her casual enquiry, somewhere to the left of us a distinctly exasperated male voice bellowed, "_Laissez-moi! Je ne veux pas m'en mêler!_"

Cate groaned, burying her face in her hands before looking skywards in desperation, as if to say '_Why_? Why _me_?'

"_Flavio_…" she whined in desperation. "What did you do to Jean _now_?" She turned towards the direction of the howl of rage, glancing back at me as she tossed her golden hair over her shoulders, and I got the distinct impression that had she been born into the twenty-first century, she would no doubt have been the spokes-model for L'Oréal.

Praise the Lord for the small mercies.

"Are you coming?" she enquired, more out of politeness than anything else. "You probably should—you _are_ meant to be the one leading me to my companions, after all."

I shrugged, following her carefully through the miniature jungle, and heard her sigh in exasperation. "Of course they'll come back to the cache…" she muttered to herself, shaking her head in resignation. "Flavio wouldn't have left without them…"

"_Come now, sugar lump,_" I heard Flavio's distinctively-accented voice whine some distance ahead. "_We both know you don't actually want me to leave you alone—_"

"_Yes, I do!_" came the retort. "_Let go of my arm, you disillusioned—_"

"_How do you expect me to dress myself without a guard?_" Flavio interjected, a pout colouring his voice.

Catriona stumbled unexpectedly, a gasp of horror escaping from her lips. She spun abruptly around, looking wildly about her in fear.

"What's wrong, Cate?" I sang, curious of her reaction. "I don't think Jack will come here, you know; he wouldn't just leave Pearl now he's actually had a chance to spend some proper time with her…"

She clasped my hand in both of hers without any prior warning, looking feverishly into my eyes. "You're not just saying that to comfort me, are you?" she whispered hurriedly.

I stared at her, wondering why I'd have wanted to comfort her in the first place. "What's going on, Catriona?" I demanded.

She shifted uncertainly from foot to foot, evading my eyes.

"There's something you should know about Flavio…" she began forebodingly. "He's…"

"Gay?" I filled in for her. "Yeah, I was able to figure that much out for myself…"

"Well, yes, he is rather overly optimistic and sanguine, but there's more…"

"Such as the fact that he's gay?" I persisted. She looked up at me, uncertain of what I'd meant by the adjective.

"Why do you keep telling me he's cheerful?"

"No," I said, waving the perception away, "I didn't mean gay as in 'happy', I meant gay as in homosexual…"

She shot me an odd look, silently asking me to explain. God, I hated how the English language had grown and developed over time.

"He likes men, doesn't he?" I settled for.

"…_Yes_," she admitted grudgingly before looking earnestly into my eyes. "But he's _not_ a—a bad person or a—a sinner, or anything—"

"Of course he isn't," I soothed.

"And I'm not just saying that because he's my brother—" she continued, pretty eyes widened as she communicated her sincerity.

"I'm sure he's a lovely human being to know," I assured her.

"And he really, _really_ can't help being a shamelessly effeminate bugger, in spite of society's unyielding and rather unfair views, you know—"

"Cate?"

"And he really _has_ tried to change when he was younger, and he succeeded for a little bit—"

"Cate…"

"He was actually genuinely keen on women for a while, I'd have you know—" she continued chattering incessantly. "Then he fell in love with a philosophical castrato from Ancona called Salimbeni, and everything just fell apart after that…"

"What's the point of this sob story?" I rudely cut short.

Cate shook her head once more, hands spread in despair. "So many people have gotten the wrong idea about him," she justified pessimistically. "I didn't want you to be… unnerved…"

"Why not?"

She looked up at me through her lashes. "Because you might tell Jack, and all of the pouting and fluttering of my lashes would have come to nothing," she candidly replied, apparently feeling no shame in openly admitting she'd as good as traded her body for shelter and safety.

Like I could talk, so I looked at her with a raised eyebrow instead of exploiting the obvious weakness. Somewhere along the line, I had developed something distantly related to a conscience.

"I doubt Jack will take kindly to Flavio's sort, that's all," she admitted openly. "He was the reason why we thrown overboard in the first place, you know—bloody French bastards. And I'm worried that when Flavio sees Jack, he'll…" She laughed nervously. "I think you understand my concern, don't you?"

"Oh, I don't think Jack will mind," I assured her. "He already has a priest who's desperately in love with him and is using religion to turn Jack and the crew against me, and he _still_ doesn't seem to mind Father Dickinson that much…"

She smiled a little before resting a hand on my shoulder. "That's not all there is to Flavio," she continued grimly, and I rolled my eyes.

"I thought there might have been more," I confessed. "What else is wrong with him? Besides his—what did you call it?—'sinful' sexuality."

She looked down at her feet, nervously wiping her hands on her breeches. "It's kind of _my_ fault, actually…" she began, and I gave an indiscreet cough. "You see, when we children, Flavio and I played together…"

"Did you really?"

She ignored my sarcasm. "One of the 'games' we frequently amused ourselves with was… Well, you know how little girls sometimes pretend to be grand ladies at balls or tea parties…?"

That brought back several embarrassing memories.

"…Yes…?" I encouraged, wondering if she ever just got straight to the point.

"And you know how sometimes young girls will find occasion to dress the part?"

"Uh-huh…"

"Well… let's just say that Flavio's never grown out of the habit," she deadpanned.

There was a very awkward pause as Cate looked slyly at me.

"…Oh…" I said when I'd eventually digested the information. "Well, that's… a little… unexpected, I'll admit…"

She cast a worried glance at me. "Do you think Jack will mind?" she repeated anxiously.

"I… don't know… It's never really come up before, and besides, I haven't been with—" I stopped myself, remembering just in time that I'd inadvertently implied that I was Pearl's mother. It really helped that Pearl's Beth and my Christa looked so much alike; it meant that there was something akin to a family resemblance between the two of us. "He might do," I encouraged.

Cate's face flushed with relief. "Praise the Lord," she murmured, and I couldn't help but feel surprise at seeing her instinctively Cross herself, as though this Catholic behaviour was natural to her. "Flavio was able to gather a few of his gowns before we were forced off of _La Dauphine Rose_, and he certainly won't be—"

I couldn't help snorting. "Nice name," I remarked.

"You think so? Flavio came up with it…" She paused, wrinkling her brow. "That's probably why we were marooned, actually. The French are very sensitive…"

"In all fairness to your brother, though," I added, "it could have been worse."

"You're right," she agreed. "He originally wanted to call her _La Coniglietta Rosa_," she divulged, a small smile tugging at her pretty lips.

I burst out laughing. "You're not serious!"

She looked at me with renewed interest. "You know Italian, I take it?"

"Of course…" I confirmed between giggles. "But—_La Coniglietta Rosa_? You _can't_ really mean that…"

She smiled embarrassedly at me. "Oh yes…"

"'The Pink Bunny'?"

She nodded. "But I had to draw the line somewhere…" She fell silent, still staring at me, and my mirth faded.

"Why are you looking at me like that, Cate?"

She shook her head. "I'm sorry, it's just… well, nobody speaks Italian in this part of the world, do they? It's quite a useless language…"

"Why is it so hard for you to believe that I can, though?" I pressed, feeling insulted that I came across as so dim-witted.

Catriona shrugged. "Jack didn't really mention you very much—"

"For obvious reasons," I noted bitterly, remembering why I'd resented her at first.

"—And when he did, he… just gave off the impression that you…"

I raised an eyebrow, waiting patiently for her to continue.

"…That you weren't very bright… or interesting…"

That obviously stung. Of course, I kept my guard up: this stranger was obviously still interested in Jack, so I wasn't ready to rule out the likely possibility that she was attempting to place as much distance between Jack and myself as she could, like she tried to earlier with the unexpected 'Are you married' enquiry…

I'm not paranoid. And I'm certainly not jealous. Although, come to think of it, there wasn't actually anything between _us_ as people to get overprotective about…

Still, it was a possibility: Jack _was_ an extremely attractive man—that had been a large part of his appeal for me. Sure, he was a little gay, maybe, with a slight drinking problem, a dangerous and possibly prohibited line of employment, not to mention emotionally unreadable and likely unavailable, with a rather twisted sense of priorities, but if you just looked past these minor details that posed as slight hindrances to a stable, loving relationship, he _was_ quite a catch.

Bastard. And did I mention he was a pretty good father as well?

The thought made me look down at my stomach once more, and I mentally slapped myself. That was at _least_ three times in one day already, and the nausea the uncertainty caused me was swiftly being displaced by irritation.

"So," I said conversationally, "Flavio does drag, huh? Cool."

"…What do you mean by that?" she asked suspiciously. "'Does drag'?"

"Well, you know… _drag_!"

She just stared at me.

"…Never mind," I said, shaking my head before looking at her hopefully. "Can I have a peek?"

"No, you can't!" she snapped, grabbing my wrist and preventing me from moving forward to where the faint sounds of hushed, angry French whispering could be heard.

"Why not?" I scowled.

"Because he's very shy, of course," she answered, and I snorted in response, attempting to step past her.

"No, really, he is," she insisted, stepping in front of me and blocking my path forward. "He's terrified when confronted with women—"

"I somehow doubt that," I told her, attempting to twist my wrist out of her grip.

"No, really—"

"For God's sake, Cate!" I nearly exploded in my emotionally-unbalanced state, making her flinch. "Why won't you introduce me to your little friends! I'm sure that's what Jack had in mind…"

"My God, you're very confrontational, aren't you?" she remarked. I raised an eyebrow impatiently.

She narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously. "Why _are_ you so desperate to meet him?" she challenged.

I bit my lip, debating on how to answer. The truth was, I was still faintly wounded after seeing Jack and Catriona together, flirting so brazenly on the beach… And then I'd stumbled upon Flavio, who was… Attractive, yes, but he was also feminine, affectionate, and apparently a cross-dresser…

Why did I want so to desperately to meet Flavio? Honestly? The answer's simple, really: I just wanted to see the look on Jack's face when I told him he can have Cate, and as many other women as he'd liked for all I'd cared, as I'd found someone _far_ more masculine than he was.

I just shrugged instead. "I've never met a female impersonator before…"

Well, it wasn't exactly a lie.

"He's not some type of wild exotic exhibit at the zoo to gawp at," she admonished severely.

"I'll be the judge of that," I retorted.

She clenched her jaw, struggling to fight back an infuriated riposte.

"Very well," she consented grudgingly. "But only on one condition: You _have_ to address Flavio as Signorina Arabellinasotema di Calatanisetta, Donna di Venezia. Can you do that?"

…Needless to say, my first meeting with Flavio was temporarily postponed.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Jealousy can be a terrible thing at times…


	36. Flavio’s Favourite Frock

**AN:** Chapter's shorter than usual; I've been having a little trouble with writer's block…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Five:** Flavio's Favourite Frock_

Cate was adamant that I never set eyes on her precious brother—and all because, although I'm not actually certain, of the fact she was ashamed of being related to an effeminate cross-dresser. I couldn't help but to question her logic on this point; I mean, if Flavio was going to join us on the _Black Pearl_, I'd have to run into him sooner or later, wouldn't I? And his questionable dress sense wasn't exactly going to remain a secret, so the pirate was just wasting her time and energy.

On the plus side, it might keep her away from Jack for a somewhat lengthy period of time. I was beginning to appreciate small blessings.

In any case, Cate really shouldn't have bothered attempting to preserve Flavio's modesty, or whatever virtuous characteristic her brother possessed she was trying to salvage, as Flavio soon came to _us_.

…Well, _technically_, Jean-François was making a mad dash for freedom which (ultimately ended with him almost running into me) with Flavio following close behind, whining about neglect and how he felt unloved in French, whilst Cate buried her face in her hands in a gesture of despair.

It wasn't hard to see why she was so mortified.

Now, I'm not certain of the exact details of what horrendous, torturous events occur during a mutiny; if I was to think of the word mutiny, my mind immediately conjures up images of a poor captain who shall remain nameless balancing precariously on a clichéd plank, hands lashed together in front of him as he peered uncertainly into the turbulent waves of the ocean whilst scores of faceless sailors jeered. The feeling of the scene was one of fear, of panic, one of mindless, unadulterated haste.

In any case, it was certainly a situation in which the soon-to-be-marooned would _not_ have had sufficient time to have gathered several dresses before being thrown overboard. And yet there stood Flavio in all his golden-haired glory, clad in what looked suspiciously like a pearly wedding dress of unsullied ivory.

And as if that wasn't humiliating enough, what else should Flavio be clutching to his chest but a lacy _veil_?

Flavio froze as his eyes fell upon me; his jaw dropped, and he very rudely stood staring at me for the longest of moments whilst I took in every intricate detail of his pretty frock.

Then, for absolutely no reason that I was aware of, he opened his mouth and screamed in a manner so high I was certain that several of the bottles of rum in the cache so close by had cracked. As soon as he was done, Flavio lifted his skirts, spun on his silk stocking-encased heel, and immediately bounded back in the direction that he came.

The three of us stood staring at the still-rustling leaves; from somewhere in front of me there came the sounds of rustling silks and other materials, some hyperventilated breathing, muttered curses in several languages, and finally, the unmistakable sound of something heavy and dare I say wooden being lifted. Then there came what I believed was the sound of feet climbing down what was very likely a ladder of a kind, and the final sound of the trapdoor snapping back into place.

I glanced at Cate, who was clearly in the middle of mentally severing all connections she had with the over-reacting pirate, and then at Jean-François, who I must admit looked more than relieved. He caught my gaze and allowed an embarrassed smile to steal across his features.

I've not yet described Jean-François, have I? The Frenchman was tall, taller than Jack, though that wasn't really much of an achievement, considering that the captain was of average height. Now that I thought about it, almost everything about his physical appearance was superior to Jack's, cruel though it may be for me to say it; his shoulders were broader than Jack's were, and his muscles more defined, from what I could see through his shirt, and the faint stubble on his face told me that usually he was a clean-shaven man. His general colouring was lighter though; his hair was an unremarkable medium brown, the same shade as mine, with a small gathering of silver strands at his left temple and faint lines at the edges of his startling grey eyes quietly denoting his supremacy in years. I also noticed that there was a scar running horizontally across his throat, the beginnings of several others peeking out from beneath the hem of his linen shirt, and couldn't help but shiver as I looked at him; there was something in the way that he carried himself that made his appearance all the more intimidating, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it…

A faint chuckle snapped me out of my thoughts, and I dragged my eyes from the stranger to look curiously at Cate, who was obviously smirking at a private joke. "And here I was, thinking you only had eyes for ole Sparrow back there," she goaded in English, so that her acquaintance would not understand.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked her suspiciously, and her smile widened ever so slightly in response as she shrugged.

"I'm just wondering…" she began, deliberately trailing off as she picked at an imaginary bit of lint on her blouse. "Just curious as to what your dear old Jack would make of _this_… recent development…"

I stared at her in suspicion, knowing what she was implying, but uncertain of how she had reached this conclusion; exactly how she planned to use this to her advantage, as I'm sure she was capable of and more than ready to do so, was also another mystery that I found unfathomable.

"…Are you alright?" I politely enquired of her mental health.

She raised her eyebrow in a gesture that was between arrogant and condescending, but before she even had a chance to reply Flavio had reappeared, blond hair in disarray, wedding dress completely unbuttoned and unlaced to reveal an ivory corset and lacy chemise.

There was a silence as we all stared at one another, clearly at a loss of how to interpret this worryingly repetitive behaviour. However, before any one of us could even begin to voice our concern, Flavio had unexpectedly dived at his sister, eliciting a shriek of surprise as she was forced backward by the assailant, both siblings landing on the earth with a thump.

"What the _hell's_ the matter with you!" Cate shrieked as Flavio, ignoring her not entirely unjustified exclamation, scrambled to his feet, unceremoniously tugging her up along with him and unknowingly displaying the miracle of his still stainless white gown.

His head whipped around so that he was looking directly at me, his shaking hand slowly rising to point accusingly in my direction.

This small, emotional gesture was apparently one of great significance to the female pirate: Cate's jaw dropped open in horror; she stared at me in fury for a moment before rounding on Flavio, violently ripping her wrist out of her brother's grip and striking him so aggressively that not only did his head snap to the side, but he also stumbled, his legs tangling with his skirts.

"_Her?_" the irate sister shrieked. "_Oh, Flavio!_"

The brother had the courtesy to blush, his pale cheeks reddening so suddenly it caused me to wonder whether what I was witnessing was actually humanly possible or if it was just a trick of the light. He lunged at her wrist once more, immediately succeeding in grasping the appendage, and, with one last fearful glance at me standing innocently to the side, calmly observing this little scene unfold, darted once more back to the rum cache, his reluctant sister accompanying him.

Jean-François and I merely stared at one another before simultaneously rushing towards the point where the two blonds had not-so-mysteriously vanished, rudely and shamelessly vying for the better view as we spied on the siblings.

Flavio was in the middle of the perilous task of diving through the trapdoor—a highly dangerous rendered doubly so by the voluminous skirts of the entirely inappropriate wedding attire—whilst Cate stood to the side, shaking her pretty head and staring at her brother in disbelief as he disappeared into the murky, alcoholic recesses of the rum cache.

Flavio's head popped back out within moments, his eyes widening as they once again met my own curious gaze once more, and he visibly gulped.

"Kitten!" he shrieked, gesticulating wildly at his sister to join him. "_Gattina mia!_"

"For Christ's sake!" she cursed, stalking towards him regardless of her obvious reluctance, and aiming a kick at her brother's head as she approached. A jolt went through me at this action; was it just me, or did it seem as though she seriously intended to dent his skull…?

Flavio, on the other hand, released a highly feminine squeal whilst ducking well out of the way of mortal peril, a gesture which Cate ignored as she stomped moodily down to join him on what I presumed were a hidden set of steps. Her hand reached out for the edge of the trapdoor as she descended, effectively swinging the trapdoor shut above her.

There was a silence for all of two seconds before Flavio's voice, timid yet loud, proclaimed, "…Kitten? I'm scared of the dark…"

"_Shut up, Flavio!_" Cate bellowed, causing both Jean-François and I to start.

Silence once again fell upon us, in which Jean-François and I once more met each other awkward gaze. He grinned nervously at me in embarrassment, his hand reaching up to unconsciously rub the back of his neck.

"_Je…_" he began, and stopped, looking uncertainly at me.

I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "_Don't worry,_" I told him in his mother tongue, "_I understand French._"

He nodded at this, but still hesitated, clearly still uncertain and uncomfortable of my presence. At length, he finally said:

"_Je ne sais cet homme pas…_"

I merely smiled and nodded in response.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Apologies, for both the delay in update and the shortness of the chapter. It got the basic point across though…


	37. Unfulfilled Longings

**AN:** I disappear for a month, and now at last I am returned, armed with a chapter that can be pulled straight out of a soap opera/romance novel. Still, it might provide some more revealing insights into the character of Sierra, so I'll shut up now.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Six:** Unfulfilled Longings_

"Sierra," Anamaria sighed in exasperation after I'd finished recounting my encounters with the three unfortunately-marooned pirates later that evening, "what have you _done_ to the poor man?"

Needless to say, Flavio was a main topic of discussion.

"Absolutely nothing whatsoever," I replied, offended that she would think otherwise.

Anamaria gave me a sidelong glance before focusing all her attention on the strip of wild boar that was her simple meal. I couldn't help but stare at the meat in longing as she examined it from every angle, silently contemplating whether she was hungry enough to subject herself to eating the faintly charred pork.

"Are you going to eat that?" I almost snapped, unable to restrain myself any longer. She jumped slightly in surprise at my tone of voice, her eyes flicking to meet my own famished gaze.

"Haven't you already…?" she began.

"Uh-huh."

"…had three helpings and two whole fish?"

"Yeah, but I'm still hungry," I argued.

Anamaria looked from me to the barely-touched sliver of food in doubt. "It's not even that _nice_."

"That's a 'yes' then," I said, and snatched the remains of a wild pig away before she could actually protest.

The woman rolled her eyes as I chewed happily away, occasionally pulling faces when I tasted burned flesh. Well, I suppose beggars can't be choosers.

"Are you sure you haven't said anything to frighten him?" she interrogated once again. "You must've at least _said_ something to the bugger…"

"Ana," I said impatiently, swallowing an extremely large mouthful, "have you not been listening to a word I've been saying? I didn't even get a chance to speak to him, what with all his screaming and panicking and running…" I trailed off, licking my dry lips and secretly wondering if there was any way I could re-hydrate myself without the aid of water; my throat was faintly parched from all of my talking and eating, but the only drink that appeared to be available was rum, which I obviously didn't even consider touching.

"Come now, what did you do?" Anamaria continued to prod, and I shot her a faintly-insulted glare before sighing and turning to face the only eyewitness available to me in the hopes that he would provide evidence for my case.

"Jean," I began in English, for Anamaria's benefit, "did I do or say anything earlier today that you would consider intimidating, threatening, or some other equally unpleasant action?" For Jean-François' own comprehension, I repeated the enquiry in his own native tongue. A little redundant, perhaps, but at least my two monolingual companions would both stand some chance of learning the other's language, doubtful though it may be.

"_Non,_" the Frenchman replied immediately, shaking his head to further emphasise the point whilst his fingers fidgeted with the cork of his own barely-touched liquor.

"'No'," I repeated smugly, and Anamaria narrowed her black eyes in response.

"_Excepté…_" Jean-François began, then stopped, apparently changing his mind. My head snapped towards him as I narrowed my eyes in annoyance, whilst on my other side, I heard Anamaria's faint chuckle.

"I think the bugger's got more to say on the matter than you'd 'oped."

Scowling, I shifted a little closer to him on the sand, my arms crossed, eyebrow raised in curiosity. "_Except…?_" I nudged gently.

The ex-captain looked down at his bare sandy feet and cleared his throat nervously, clearly uncomfortable, and refused to acknowledge my attempt at conversation.

"_I'm still waiting for that explanation, Jean,_" I attempted to encourage. He shook his head and drew his knees up to his chest in an almost defensive gesture.

"You must've done something terrible, love," Anamaria chimed in, and I twisted my body to glare at her.

"I. Did. Nothing." I said through gritted teeth. She gave me a condescending smile, humouring me as though I was a young child who insisted that one and one made eleven, which I ignored as I refocused my gaze on the nervous Frenchman beside me.

"_Why won't you tell me?_" I whined, and he muttered something quickly under his breath.

"What's he saying?" Anamaria demanded, and I shrugged.

"Um… something about not wishing to cause me unjust and undue offence, I think…" The English pirate snorted in a way as though to say that she'd doubted such a feat was possible, which I once again ignored.

"_Go on,_" I encouraged, leaning closer and tilting my head so that my ear was only inches from his lips. "_I promise I won't be insulted. And if in the doubtful case that I am, I swear I will not in any way hold you accountable._"

My reassurance seemed to put the currently-friendless Frenchman at ease, for he leaned a little closer, close enough for his warm breath to tickle my hair and skin, and slowly, awkwardly began to provide an insight into his blond companion's state of mind.

"_What?_" I exclaimed after, with some difficulty and plenty of stammering, he completed his first sentence. "_Mais—il est un homme!_"

"_That's not what **he** thinks,_" Jean said gravely.

"…Oh…"

"Well?" Anamaria interjected rudely. "What is it that you did do but claimed that you didn't?"

"I…" I began, pausing and raising my head so that I was nose-to-nose with Jean-François. "_Are you sure…?_"

He nodded, leaning slightly away so that our noses were no longer touching.

"_Is there no other reason?_" I pressed. "_Are you **sure** there's no other reason? Are you sure that's it?_"

Jean-François paused, eyebrows furrowed in thought, before beckoning me closer with his finger once more. I complied, and felt the tickling sensation of his breath on my ear once again as he divulged another theory which I, personally, thought sounded much more probable.

"_Do you think that's the real reason?_" I looked up hopefully when he drew away.

"_Non,_" he replied. "_The first reason's more likely._"

I tried my best not to look too disappointed. "_Alright,_" I relented grudgingly, and turned to face the wrath of Anamaria's unsated curiosity once more. "It was because…" I trailed off, shooting Jean-François a doubtful glance. He gave me an encouraging smile, gesturing with his hands for me to continue.

"_Are you absolutely certain?_" I asked once more. "_I don't want to sound arrogant; I like this girl…_"

"_Oui._"

"_Mes seins?_" I gestured, and he nodded his dark head vigorously.

"_Oui. Votre seins._"

"_What about her breasts?_" Jack's unexpected voice interrupted our redundant and repetitive wordplay, and I jumped, accidentally pushing Jean-François away.

"Oh! Um, good evening, Jack," I greeted, my heart still hammering from the unexpected interruption. I noticed in the blazing, flickering light of the bonfire that he was dressed in a whiter shirt and darker breeches of a less-used quality than his usual attire; up until this moment, I was under the impression that he only possessed the clothes on his back. A closer examination told me that the garments were made of a finer material—silk, I think, although I wasn't certain, so I reached out and ran my fingers on the unbuttoned hem of his shirt.

"I take it you went back to the ship then?" I asked, playing with a small cream button. "Is Pearl there?"

"She's deceptively sleeping like an angel," he agreed, not-so-subtly pulling me away from my new French friend.

"What did you do to Flavio, Sierra?" Anamaria asked once more, clearly not about to be deterred so easily. "You've been dodging the question e'er since I first asked it…"

"Well…" I began, glancing at Jean once more, and Anamaria groaned, a hand reaching up to massage her head.

"Just answer the bloody question and be done with it," she tiredly intoned, and I scowled at the order before burying my face in Jack's unbuttoned shirt, feeling him involuntarily stiffen as I breathed on his bare skin.

"The only crime," I began, " that I have committed against this Flavio is this: I…" I buried my face further into Jack's chest, wrapping my arms about him. "Oh God, why does he have to be so weird?" I muttered to myself before lifting my head and looking Anamaria straight in the eye. "Basically, in the eyes of Flavio, apparently, my breasts are…" I hesitated "…criminal."

Jack laughed, his shoulders shaking comfortingly whilst Anamaria gaped at me for a moment before also joining in with her captain's sniggering. "_What?_" she asked, taking a swig of her rum.

"_Well_," I began with a glance at Jean-François, who nodded happily for me to continue. "Apparently Flavio feels intimidated by any woman with bigger breasts then him. Needless to say, that includes me."

"That includes a rather high percentage of the female sex," Jack contributed, still chuckling slightly to himself, and I could detect the faintest trace of rum on his breath. Even as I thought it, his arm snaked around my shoulders, reaching out to grasp my untouched bottle. He frowned at the bottle, glancing back down at me in undisguised curiosity before shrugging and bringing the trapped substance to his mouth, pulling the cork out with his teeth.

"Why?" Anamaria asked, clearly confused, and my eyes returned to hers. "I mean, he's a man, ain't he? Surely with all men bigger is better."

"That's what I asked," I agreed, "and Jean said that Flavio was under the impression that he _was_ a woman, so you can see the logic in his reasoning…"

Anamaria shook her head, and I became uncomfortably aware of Jack's long, uninterrupted draught. "So what's he like then?" she asked next, not completely changing topic.

"Well, um…" I stuttered, still aware of Jack's obnoxious, unending swallowing, "he… looks exactly like Cate—God knows where they're off to—only he's more…" I paused. "Well, I was going to say 'masculine', but that wouldn't exactly be true—Could you do that a little more courteously?" I snapped at Jack in reference to his obvious slurping, making him jump and sputter. "That's making me thirsty," I explained at his bewildered expression.

He blinked before offering the beverage, but I shook my head, moving away from him, guilt and embarrassment vying for supremacy inside of me. Of course, moving away from him meant that I was unconsciously huddling closer to Jean-François, but I don't think either of the men actually noticed.

"Sorry," I offered meekly, glaring at the sand, "I don't drink. I mean, I don't feel like drinking tonight; is there anything else?"

Jack tilted his head to the side, brow furrowed as he slowly contemplated the question before shaking his head.

"Oh, come on," I argued, "are you honestly telling me that rum is only liquid here? You must have some water for Pearl."

"Ships don't drink water, Sierra," Jack explained drunkenly. "They glide on it, and make ripples." For some strange reason unbeknownst to me, he started to giggle.

"I meant _Pearl_," I stressed. "Your daughter, Pearl? The small, bouncy human being with the big blue eyes and irresistible pouting?"

"Oh, _that_ Pearl!" Jack exclaimed, beaming at his ability to comprehend this simple statement. "Oh, she's fine. She's perfect, actually. Never been better. Sound asleep, like a lil' angle…"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "Don't you mean 'angel'?"

"That's what I said," Jack waved away, his hands still dancing in their intricate gesturing circles even in his inebriated state. His uncharacteristically clumsy fingers fell onto my shoulders, whilst his other hand dropped his bottle into my lap as he groped for my chin, turning my face upwards, and he attempted to kiss me, catching the corner of my mouth by accident. He laughed at his miscalculation, moving his head slightly, and I smiled in spite of myself when our lips eventually met: Jack's technique worsened considerably when intoxicated. Before I knew it, he'd pushed me back onto the sand, spilling his rum all over my skirt as he did so, and apparently neither noticing nor caring.

"Stop it," I said as I turned my face away, but he ignored me completely, his mouth nuzzling the side of my neck. "Stop it, Jack." It wasn't that I minded his attention, obviously; it was just that there were many others—literally a whole boatload—that were in a position to witness the act. That was probably why he was doing it, I realised, and tried to push him away.

"_Jack…_" I pleaded, my struggling growing frantic as irrational panic swiftly gripped my mind. "Get off me!"

I hadn't realised that I was on the verge of crying until I heard the tears creeping into my voice. Jack must've also realised that all was not well, as he'd immediately released me, falling drunkenly back onto his haunches and clumsily brushing himself off whilst I sat up, shakily running my fingers through my hair in a silent search for any stray grains of sand. Only when I was somewhat presentable did I shakily meet his gaze, uncertain of how he'll take my unexpected reaction: even _I_ though it odd that Doyle's ghost would suddenly return to cast a spectral shadow over Jack's drunken advances, so God only knows how the captain's liquored mind was interpreting it.

The distinctly sweet fragrance of rum pulled me back to reality, and I realised that Jack had retrieved his rum bottle and was impatiently waving it under my nose. "Do you know what your problem is, darling?" he said to me, now completely oblivious to my short-lived panic attack. "Your problem is, you haven't been drinking." And he swiftly pushed the tip of the bottle against my mouth, the warm glass trembling against my lower lip.

I wrinkled my nose at him, shaking my head. "I don't drink," I repeated, pushing the substance away. "For God's sake, Jack!" I snapped at his persistence, ignoring his look of confused pain. A slight tugging caught my attention, and I turned to see Jean-François looking vaguely perplexed as he asked, firstly who Jack was, and secondly what the two of us were arguing over. Jack very rudely answered for me, saying that I was in a foul mood and, for reasons unknown to him, completely refused all offers of alcoholic substances. Naturally, I protested, albeit half-heartedly.

And that was when Jean-François asked me the question: the one single question that would be the first of many incidences that endangered my budding relationship with Jack.

"_Do you like coconuts?_"

Of course, I was faintly perplexed at the supposedly unconnected randomness of this enquiry, and blinked at him. "_Pardon?_"

"_Coconuts,_" he repeated. "_Have you ever had one?_"

I stared at him, still vaguely uncertain of how to answer. "_I… don't **mind** coconuts…_" I replied cautiously. "_Why…?_"

He waved his hand somewhere in the general direction of pitch darkness. "_There are palm trees here,_" he began, "_and if you're thirsty, I can always just…_"

I was touched by his kindness.

"_That's very thoughtful of you,_" I told him. "_Yes, that would be nice, but—won't that be a little bit of a hassle for you?_"

"'Course it won't!" Jack chimed happily in, calloused hands once again dancing in a shooing motion clearly calculated to push Jean-François away from our merry fire-lit gathering. He really could be quite obnoxious when he was drunk, as I was discovering to my distaste. We both ignored his unwanted contribution.

"_No no no, it won't be any trouble at all,_" the Frenchman reassured me, casting glances laced with undisguised anxiety towards Jack, who had suddenly fallen silent was glaring at the well-meaning man with unfocused black eyes.

"Oh, I'm _sure_ it won't," the distempered captain snapped at the older man, in his inebriation forgetting his rival couldn't understand a word of English. I hastily translated the unexpectedly passionate exclamation whilst silently wondering if Jack's foul mood could grow any worse.

"What do you mean?" I asked him, casting a sideway glance at Anamaria, who was calmly sitting the side observing the proceedings with unconcerned interest.

"'What do I mean?'" he parroted spitefully, and I have to admit I was vaguely hurt at hearing him use that particular tone of voice when addressing me, "What do I mean? I'll bloody well tell you what I mean, young missy!" This last he shouted aloud, to the utter lack of notice of his carousing crew; out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a few men swinging each other around in circles of a drunken dance they'd have well forgotten come morning.

Jack had paused after this enthusiastic yelp for what I believed were two reasons: one, for the much-beloved and overused dramatic effect; and two, to swallow several mouthfuls of his darling rum.

"What I mean," he finally began after I'd wrestled the bottle away from his oddly parched lips and gently prompted him to continue with a sharp poke to the rib, "is that your friend's here a dir'y little liar's what I meant."

Good God, his customarily perfect pronunciation was falling apart… I shot his rum a filthy look, whilst Anamaria snorted at his reasoning, gleefully coughing in the background in a clear gesture that she believed he had no right to call _others_ liars. Leaning back, I placed the hated bottle of liquor as far out of Jack's reach as I could without moving from my position myself, flashed Jean-François a half-apologetic, half-embarrassed smile, and leaned back to my original sitting position, fluttering my lashes disarmingly in a manner that I hoped was both sincerely innocent yet irresistibly seductive.

It had no effect whatsoever; Jack merely scowled at my uncharacteristically coy features and attempted to push me aside, long fingers reaching out for his pilfered bottle. I immediately dropped my most innocent mask and narrowed my eyes, using my entire body weight to push him back from his addictive goal. "A dirty liar? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you _know_ what I'm talking about," he hissed as his hands rested on both of my shoulders, unmistakably calculating how much energy he would need to pick me up and drop in a place away from his liquor. A playful kiss on the nose did nothing to relieve him of his inebriated intentions, and before I knew it, I had been roughly disappointed at the feet of the still standing Jean-François. How charming.

"Him saying it's no trouble a' all to get you a damned coconut," Jack was muttering, sweeping up his fiery liquid just as Jean offered me a helping hand. "_That's_ what I'm talking about."

"What do you mean?" I turned to look at him, ignoring the marooned man's hand for the moment.

"It's a bloody amount of trouble!" he said by way of explanation.

I was looking at him in concern now. "…I still don't quite follow…"

"Look!" he exclaimed, waving his arms, rum and all, to further emphasise his point. "Look all 'round you and tell me, me angle, _what_ do you see?"

"_My an**gel**_," I corrected huffily; I had (well, I _could've_ had) a university degree in English and a healthy dislike for all things mathematical, and did not wish to be referred to as an angle.

"Don't change the subject," he reprimanded sternly. "Now answer me, my angle" (he was doing it deliberately now, I was almost sure) "what do you spy with your beautiful blue eyes?"

"Nothing," I replied stoutly, "it's pitch-black, Jack."

"Yes!" he pounced, pointing a triumphant finger directly at my nose and ignoring my little jump of involuntary surprise. "Exactly! You can't see a single damned thing on _this_ night! How, if I may be so bold as to enquire, is your lovely French friend planning on fetching you a coconut if he can't even see which tree bears the bloody fruit!"

I smiled nervously and shifted a little closer to Jean-François, who was slowly edging away from the extremely vocal Englishman.

"How, exactly," Jack continued, apparently hell-bent on a drunken tirade, "does he plan to climb up a tree he can't actually _see_, let alone cut down this brown, hairy source of primitive rehydration if he can't even see three inches past his pestiferous French nose!"

Something inside me snapped at these words: here was Jean-François, a poor, marooned, lonely, and temporarily friendless, surrounded by a group of foreign men he no doubt found intimidating, yet he was willing to trot off and perform this one little thoughtful gesture upon seeing how uncomfortable I was, and Jack's just sitting, there, drunk off his arse and hurling uncalled-for insults when really, if anyone should offer to fetch me a coconut, it should be him, as it _was_ his fault I couldn't touch any of his cherished alcohol in the first place! The injustice of it all hit me like one of Anamaria's infamous slaps in the face, and I clenched my jaw, sat up straighter, and unflinchingly met his gaze.

"He's had a few pretty awful experiences lately, Jack; he's been marooned, he's been hiding out with one petrified blond freak and one blonde bitch for days, he hasn't anything really decent to eat—and believe me, this doesn't count as decent food… _Try_ to see things from his point of view, Jack: how would you feel? …And he doesn't actually _have_ to get me anything; no one asked him to, he offered his…" I hesitated groping for an appropriate word, and cursed myself when one failed to reveal itself. "…Services," I settled, "of his own accord, and that's all the more reason to treat him with a little more courtesy to show him that this little act of compassion isn't going unappreciated, don't you think?"

The look Jack gave me was the most hurtful I had ever received: he looked upon me with such concentrated hatred I'd nearly open my mouth to apologise for a wrong I hadn't committed, but stopped myself in time, clenching my jaw as I tilted my head up defiantly. "Well?" I demanded. "Do you have anything to say to that?"

"Only that there's more reason to suppose his intentions aren't entirely selfless."

"_Why?_" I challenged.

"Two reasons, really: firstly, he's a pirate, and secondly, he's a man in the presence of a beautiful woman."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, darlin', that I've more reason to believe his act of coconut-fetching kindness is more to do with a skilfully concealed desire to get under your skirts."

I turned to look at the man under so much discussion alone to find that he'd obviously gotten very bored—or scared—and had wandered off to locate saner company.

"Do you know what I think?" I said, turning back to face my lover. "I think that you're just being really immature—and drunk. I think that rum's gone to your head—but do you know what I _really_ can't believe? That it's so easy for you to think that I'll just go fuck any man who's even remotely more attractive than you are—why is that? What could I have possibly done to make you think that, are you just too drunk to think anything through?"

"Well," Jack began, "his voice low and mockingly cruel, "you _are_ a whore."

For several long moments I merely sat there, held in place by a mixture of shock, anger, and, let's be frank, hurt. Reaching a decision, I stood, murmured some parting words to Anamaria, and stormed away from the drunken rogue who couldn't let a low blow pass him by, following the footprints of a certain Frenchman. I felt the captain's eyes on my back as I melted away into the darkness, but resisted the urge to look back, choosing instead to look towards my uncertain destination. Did the pirate make any effort to call me back, to run after me and grab my arm and apologise for the unwarranted insult? No, he did not, and I hated him all the more for it.

But most of all, I couldn't help but hate myself: hate how I refused to bear in mind that the man was intoxicated and probably didn't know what he was saying; hate how I didn't acknowledge his drunken slurs at Jean-François for the protective jealousy that they truly revealed; hate how I allowed my emotions to completely take over me and perform ill-advised acts. But most of all, I hated how, for all of my pretensions and unsavoury behaviour, I was still just a spoilt little girl who still cried at the slightest slur; I was slowly beginning to see what sort of miserable, unpleasant, ungrateful woman I really was.

And in a way, I also hated myself for the merciless betrayal I was about to commit.

"Jean!" I called softly as I drew nearer to the broad-shouldered silhouette faintly limping away from the warmth of the campfires. He stopped and turned back to look at me, a quizzical expression on his face.

"_Is your captain… all right?_" he asked after a brief moment's of hesitation as I fell into step with him.

"_He's not always like that,_" I reassured him, snaking my hand about his forearm, my fingers tracing patterns on the firm, weathered flesh. I felt a grim satisfaction course through me as he shivered at the contact, but otherwise made no acknowledgement of the intimate gesture.

"_He's not exactly fond of me, is he?_"

"_He's just had too much to drink,_" I reassured him, "_He's not thinking things through. Speaking of which…_"

I leaned closer to him, so close that he felt my warm breath on the sensitive bare skin of his neck; heard him swallow, and, with a suppressed smirk, continued. "_Is that offer for coconuts still open?_"

"…_Yes…_" he answered, attempting to readjust his body so that I was no longer intruding on his personal space without appearing impolite and failing miserably at both.

"_Good,_" I purred, my hand sliding down to tightly grip his own fingers.

"_Is that why—? Would you like—?_"

"_Maybe later,_" I cut short, secretly enjoying his uneasiness; it had been such a long time since I could make a man feel nervous in my presence, I'd half-forgotten the exhilaration that coursed through me as I watched the unfortunate male in question stammer and stutter as he grew more and more uncomfortable.

We'd stopped walking now, and I began to gently but firmly rotate his body so that he was facing me; even though he was the larger and certainly the stronger of the two of us, his body responded to my every faintest touch, obeying my every unspoken command. A sudden thought occurred to me as I watched him; Jack had never been like this with me. Never. Even when I was the seductress, Jack had always ended up as the one in control. And even in our most passionate moments, he'd never once looked at me the way Jean-François, and countless others before him, was looking at me now.

The man whose arms were wrapped around me was content with merely looking at me; studying every individual feature of my face, memorising every detail, _appreciating_ this one single moment. It was moments like these, and not the innumerable glances in the mirror, nor the empty compliments received by polite acquaintances, that made me realise I was truly beautiful. And had Jack ever taken the time to simply look at me? If he knew that I was beautiful, he certainly didn't show it, much less take the time to appreciate it. Perhaps I really was just a harlot to him; a piece of skirt to be used and then tossed aside.

So now you know; the real reason for my sexual depravity isn't just all down to raging hormones, but also due in part to the simple fact that I wanted to feel appreciated. It's strange, isn't it? So many minutes, hours, _days_ of my life consumed by fornication, and all of it driven by my selfish longing for a few seconds of unabashed admiration like these. Perhaps I should just settle down with a kind, sensitive romantic; probably a poet…

But one thing was suddenly clear to me, standing there looking up into a stranger's shadowed eyes: I was never going to receive the romantic moments I so desperately yearned for from Jack. Which was quite an upsetting fact to come to terms with, as I was almost certain I was half in love with him already. Damn my romantic ways.

Jean shuddered as my fingers flitted against his cheek. He found me intimidating: I couldn't help but find this thought amusing. Here was a man with scars from battle, a man who'd endured years of shabbily-rewarded hardships at sea, a man who'd murdered and injured and maimed and Lord only knows what other forms of physical pains he had both endured and inflicted; and here I was, a weak, unimposing young woman who found washing dishes an agony beyond endurance, and yet _he_ was unsettled by _me_. I knew how to proceed.

I looked up into his eyes, and slowly reached up to kiss the corner of his lip. He was numb, at first; scared, uncertain of how to proceed, fearful of the consequences: he had no idea of who I was—was I the ship's harlot, passed from one deckhand to another until all were satisfied? Or was I the captain's woman; strictly off limits, with terrible consequences if the lines were crossed, the rules broken?

But here's another more pressing question: was I betraying Jack? As the two of us stood together in the comforting veil of darkness, I felt a wave of guilt wash over me, and briefly considered pulling away. But then I recalled Cate, with her silky mane of golden threads, her flawless ivory skin and red lips, the long black lashes framing her unusual violet eyes, and I remembered that soon she would appear by the fire, no doubt ready to comfort Jack in any way necessary whilst her odd brother showed off his wedding dress, and for some reason, the feeling of guilt dissipated as swiftly as it had come.

I no longer felt any qualms or hesitation; I was ready. Now I merely had to wait for Jean-François to reach a decision.

He turned his head slightly, responding to my kiss as he pulled me closer. To be honest, I think he gave as much thought to the consequences of his actions as I had when I'd first formed the plan:

He just didn't care.

**-x!x-**


	38. Who The Hell Is Bernard?

**AN:** I'm so sorry about the delay, I really am—for the length of this chapter as well, but I haven't had a lot of time free lately, and I decided it was best to update with this and delay the plot—AGAIN—than leaving all of my wonderful readers wondering what will happen next.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Seven:** Who The Hell Is Bernard?_

Sometime in the early morning, when the inky blackness of the night sky was stripped away to reveal a vaguely lighter stripe of indigo, saw me noisily retching behind a small gathering of palm trees. Jean-François had fallen asleep long ago—and yes, he had _eventually_ fetched me a coconut, for those of you cared to know (five, in fact). Now, he was merely lying on his back, softly snoring, dressed only in his breeches and shamelessly displaying a chest that was heavy with the scars of what looked like a violent whipping; the rest of his clothing he had folded to make a pillow.

I closed my eyes, leaning my forehead against one of the trees, still gagging, and silently cursed Jack and his spawn. When I'd composed myself, I emerged from the trees, and surreptitiously making certain that my shift was fully buttoned, made my way towards the beach for a late night—or rather, early morning—stroll. For some unfathomable reason, sleep had evaded me, and as far as I was aware, I was the only human being on this entire island conscious at this hour.

The gentle foam of the restless ocean lapped teasingly at my bare feet as I began to trek around this abandoned island. There was something very calming at that hour; that point in the day when the starlight was beginning to dim but the dawn had yet to colour the skies with its warm pastels. I wrapped my arms about myself, wishing I had bothered to dress; despite the fact that the Caribbean was renowned for its warm and humid climate, there were apparently times in the year when the temperature at night dropped considerably. This was apparently one of those times; odd, considering how not so long ago, I was throwing my window wide open and lying on my cheap mattress with absolutely nothing between my skin and the sticky, suffocating night air. Now, here I was, wandering along the beach of an apparently uncharted island, wishing I'd had the foresight to gather my clothing before I went to relieve my stomach from wherever they'd been hastily tossed aside.

This last thought brought back recent memories of the night before, and I wrinkled my nose at the thought. I was actually quite disappointed, but I wasn't really certain why. The only reason I could think of for not being as pleased with the entire… event was that I now had to wait until morning to face the consequences. That, and Jean-François' honest opinion had been… less than satisfactory. I don't want to go into details, but the general gist of was, "It wasn't bad, but you could've been better."

_Bâtard._ I mean, I know I should appreciate him for his honesty and whatnot, but… My God, what a prick he was. And after saying this, he was arrogant enough to ask me to sleep with him a second time! What did he think I was? He knew _nothing_ about women. That being said, I did have sex with him again, and his evaluation of my technique was better than the last time, but he shouldn't have just said "Sweetheart, you're nothing special" the first time round, should he?

…Alright, to be fair, he didn't exactly offer up his opinion of his own accord. I _may_ have prompted him. A little bit. Well, maybe I nagged him… both times… and I may or may not have insisted he be utterly honest with me… But surely the man was mature enough to realise that actually meant I wanted him to lie as though his life depended on it? How _stupid_ can a Frenchman be? Actually, I don't know why I'm getting so worked up about all of this; I could have sworn I heard him murmuring Flavio's name in his sleep… Which actually rendered the entire situation sick and wrong and disturbing and—My God, am I _masculine_? I mean, when I first made him aware of my intentions, did he look at me and think, 'Well, she looks enough like a boy, so why not?' Do people mistake me for a man? Am I not pretty in a feminine way?

Anyway, Jack had never been so harsh. Come to think of it, he hardly ever commented on my bedroom technique—did this mean he also thought I could do with improvement, but was too polite to mention anything? No wonder he didn't want to sleep with me as much as I'd wanted—

It was only when I'd come face-to-face with a wall of solid rock that I realised that dawn was beginning to break, and I really should be making my way back. It was a new day, and if what Pearl had told me was true, we were all in for a backbreaking morning. Who knew that my sex life took so much time to process? So I spun on my heel, and had taken only a few steps forward, when I heard something so completely random that it stopped me in my tracks:

"I _am_ masculine."

Well, the voice certainly didn't sound it. But I was quite curious as to who was talking to whom, so I froze completely in my tracks, my ears strained for the slightest indication of life.

"Don't _you_ think I'm masculine?"

Now the distinctly feminine voice sounded uncertain of itself, as though it needed reassurance. It was coming from a little point beyond the rock I'd nearly collided with. So I turned and stealthily made my way back, pressing myself against the cold rough stone in case peeking around the corner would give me away to this apparently masculine individual.

"Well, I'll have you know, Bernard, I _am_ masculine! _Extremely_ masculine! Why, I've lost count of the number of individuals telling me how excruciatingly _manly_ I am!" The voice was now high and shrill and deeply offended—but who the hell was Bernard?

"Well, I am. So _there_," the voice told Bernard confidently—except I didn't hear Bernard say anything.

"Well, _that_ hardly matters," the voice that was certainly beginning to ring a bell scoff. I furrowed my brow in confusion; I was beginning to feel faintly worried about all of this; talking to yourself wasn't exactly a symptom of perfect mental health, was it?

His next words confirmed my suspicions: "An illogical phobia of breasts _is_ a normal part of being a man, Bernard!" the voice yelped. "How _dare_ you insult me!"

Flavio was beginning to scare me. I think I was beginning to understand Cate's shame in having him as a close blood relative; not only did he spend a high percentage of his waking moments believing he was a member of the fairer sex, but it had now emerged he also possessed a multiple personality disorder, and his alias was christened Bernard. Now I could fully understand her humiliation: Bernard was a horrible name.

"I hadn't actually thought of that…" Flavio confessed. "But—But—But—But I have lots of pretty dresses… What do you mean, 'what's that got to do with anything'? I'll give then to her, of course… Silly Bernard…"

Still, the fact that there was a raving maniac conversing with himself and trying to prove to his Bernard that he was the epitome of masculinity did very little to stop me from stepping around the large and inconveniently-placed boulder.

Sure enough, there sat Flavio—dressed in a shirt and breeches instead of the wedding dress that I'd expected. Not that that lovely piece of clothing had gotten very far; actually, there was a small pile of gorgeous silken gowns carefully folded next to him, and his hand would occasionally pat them of its own accord.

Flavio's back was to me, his blond hair spilling gently about his shoulders, which were slightly hunched as he leaned forward, apparently talking to Bernard—so he didn't notice my quiet and steady approach.

"Of course she'll like them… They're just as pretty as her… Well, almost…" He paused, lowering his ear, apparently listening intently to Bernard's input. "Yes, the breasts do detract considerably from her charms," he agreed, and I felt my eyes widening as I realised he was talking about me, "but besides those two _hideous_ miscalculations of nature, she is quite lovely…"

"Um…" I began stupidly, feeling more than a little flattered by these compliments, "excuse me but… May I ask, exactly who are you talking to?"

Flavio visibly jumped; his hand shot forward to scoop something up from the sand, and I assumed he shoved the object down the front of his shirt in panic before scrambling to his feet and turning towards me, a wide smile gracing his features. That grin visibly shrank as his violet eyes fell to what he himself had declared as 'hideous miscalculations of nature', and I saw him swallow before he completely composed himself.

"Hello," he squeaked before immediately cringing, golden eyebrows furrowed as he evaluated the undignified pitch. So he giggled nervously at me, a hand reaching up to smooth back his hair. Then he cleared his throat rather obnoxiously, and tried again, in a voice several hundred octaves lower and almost as deep as Jack's own seductive drawl, "Good morning."

It seemed to cause him actual physical _pain_ just to get those two little words out. I smiled gently at him in response, and—do you know, I think he actually _swooned_?

There was a pause in which Flavio actually began to drool over me (not literally). It was very sweet—yet at the same time, rather unhygienic.

"So, um… Flavio… How are you?"

There was another long pause as he processed my words, mouth working like a fish out of water.

"Hello," he said again, "I'm manly—actually, I'm not, I'm Flavio—but I certainly don't mean I'm effeminate."

Another pause.

"Alright…" I smiled encouragingly, and he ducked his head shyly, apparently blushing. It was on the tip of my tongue to enquire after Bernard's well-being, but I decided that would be tactless; so instead, I introduced myself, reaching out for his hand, which he shyly took.

"My name's Flavio," he stuttered once more, "and I don't like men." He giggled nervously, and I saw through his mass of silky hair his reddening cheeks.

I raised my eyebrow. "Oh, really, Flavio? You don't like men?"

"No, not at all," he agreed. "I'm a manly masculine—a masculinely manine—I'm a man," he settled for desperately, "and most certainly _not_ a woman. Which is why I don't like them—because I am one." He then ducked his head, and I heard him mutter under his breath, "Stop it, Bernard."

I reached out to gently cup his cheek, and his head snapped up. He stopped, staring deeply into my eyes—apparently, the man found them hypnotic.

"So, Flavio," I began softly, for fear of sending him into a panic attack, "who do those dresses belong to?"

"Well, they are most certainly _not_ mine!" he protested indignantly. "I mean that they—they—they—they don't belong to _anybody_," he assured me. "So—so—so—you can have them…"

And he turned abruptly away, probably to hide the tears springing suddenly up into his eyes, I assumed.

"Well, you know…" I started, moving so that I was meeting his eyes once more, "I didn't think they belonged to you."

He sniffled, looking at me curiously. "D—Didn't you?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Nope. Not once."

"Why not?" He sounded more than a little offended.

"Because, Flavio…" I said, leaning in a little closer to further accentuate my point, "from the very first moment I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself, 'My, what a fine specimen of a man. If only more men were as masculine.'"

His tears immediately vanished as his eyes lit up, apparently unable to see through my tiny little white lie. Forgetting my obtrusive proximity for the moment, he looked down into his shirt, and proclaimed triumphantly, "_See_, Bernard? I _am_ the epitome of manliness after all!"

"Yes, darling," I agreed, "you really, truly are."

"Thank you," he said to me, before adding sulkily to Bernard, "No, of course not—Shut up, Bernard… No, she's not just humouring me… Why would you be so cruel?"

I couldn't restrain myself any longer. "So, Flavio," I said innocently, "now that we're acquainted… Can you please introduce me to Bernard?"

Flavio's eyes widened comically. "B—B—B—Bernard?" he parroted fearfully. "B—B—B—Bernard who?"

"_Bernard_ Bernard," I stressed. "Your little friend that's living inside your shirt." Because, sure enough, there was a bulge—a very slight, very small bulge, but a bulge nonetheless—that was moving of its own accord.

He immediately wrapped his arms protectively about himself—and Bernard. "No such creature exists within the contents of my clothing!" he snarled in fear.

"If you deny the existence of Bernard one more time, I _will_ strip you in search of him," I warned.

There was a pause as Flavio considered this scenario before reaching a decision. "No such creature exists within the contents of my clothing!" he said again, allowing his arms to rest at his side.

I laughed at the blatant invitation, and made to grab at the creature moving against Flavio's skin—my fingers barely brushed against the shirt before his hands had suddenly grabbed my arms and he had pushed me down onto the soft sandy surface. I pouted at the immature tactic, but continued to bat against his chest in an attempt to lure out Bernard.

We were only wrestling for five minutes or so—and for the entirety of the time Flavio had used his body weight to pin me to the floor—when a few carefully chosen words destroyed our newfound comradeship.

"So, whore—two men in one night, eh? You're worse than Flavio," a malicious female voice commented, clearly delighting in catching us in what I suddenly realised could have, to the casual observer, been a rather compromising position.

I stiffened, turning to face Cate with a snarl on my features, more than ready to bite back. My tongue froze as my eyes took in the full sight.

Not only was Cate standing there, smirking down at me in that arrogant, scornful manner of hers, but she was doing so dressed in what I immediately recognised to be Jack's shirt from the night before. Her hair was tousled, her violet eyes were bright, and there was something in her demeanour that instantly told me she was recovering from what was apparently one wild night of sex. With Jack, of course. But these… cold, cruel facts weren't what made me freeze.

Standing slightly behind Cate, her beautiful face wrenched in betrayal, was Pearl, looking as though her little heart was breaking inside of her in that very moment. Even as I watched, I saw tears springing into her big blue eyes as she processed what her eyes saw—me scantily dressed in only my undergarment, being crushed by some gender-confused maniac—and combined it with what Cate had loudly declared.

Before I had a chance to say anything, she'd spun on her heel, and darted swiftly back from whence she came. And it didn't take a genius to work out that she was running to Jack.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** So, the question that is the title of this chapter still remains unanswered: anyone like to take a guess as to who—or WHAT—Bernard is?


	39. Insightful Speculations

**AN:** Well, this is definitely a faster update than last time… You can't say I don't love you people…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Eight:** Insightful Speculations_

"Darling, don't be like this," I desperately begged of Pearl as I chased after her. She ignored me, ducking behind a palm tree in an attempt to lose me. I darted right after her, but had only gone three paces or so before a sudden pain on the sole of my foot made its presence known. Gasping in pain, I instinctively stumbled back, only to tread painfully on yet another unnoticed cone. Cursing unashamedly, I fell backwards, my fingers brushing hopelessly against a frond of deep green sprouting from a palm bent tauntingly over me. Wincing, I sat up, my fingers immediately reaching up to assess my head for any damage.

Trembling slightly, I stood back up, my eyes scanning the vegetation for any sign of the little girl—but she had disappeared without a trace. I was now faced with three options:

I could continue my futile search for Pearl—and very likely in vain. And even if, by some miracle I was able to track her down, she'd made it perfectly clear she wanted nothing more to do with me—for the moment, anyway;  
I could make my way back to Flavio and the still-elusive Bernard—but that would mean facing Cate, who would no doubt flaunt her one-night stand with Jack whilst simultaneously bullying her adorably disturbing brother;  
or I could simply make my way to the beach, where repairs for the _Black Pearl_ were no doubt well underway, and where the chances of my encountering any form of unpleasantness were relatively slim.

I think it's obvious which option I chose after several agonising milliseconds of indecisive deliberation.

My theory proved correct; by the time I'd made my way back to the beach, every hand on Jack's crew was busy clambering over the upturned _Black Pearl_ in a manner that reminded me of labouring ants. I nearly gasped at the sight of Jack's precious _Pearl_ lying on her side in the shallows; several longboats lay scattered haphazardly along the beach, ropes from the majestic vessel spilled unashamedly into their smaller hulls. I wasn't exactly certain of what was happening, but it looked as though the majority of the crew were attempting to scrape something off of the _Pearl_'s mostly-ebony belly. I shook my head, shrugging the image off, silently praying that I wouldn't be submitted to the same backbreaking labour.

Of course, I had far more important matters at hand. The location of my various articles of clothing being one of them.

Skulking around the edge of the forest as I searched for the location of our (by which I mean Jean and I) coupling proved fruitless, which obviously meant that the Frenchman had thoughtfully gathered all of my belongings when he'd awoke to discover I was not lying devotedly by his side. So, until I could locate the man's exact whereabouts, I had to walk about under the Caribbean sun with my _ankles_, of all bodily appendages, as bare as God intended.

Speaking of which, where was Father Dickinson? I hadn't seen him in quite a while; I presumed he'd died of a strange and unknown illness, and nobody had really paid the piratical cleric any mind, since he was such an annoying git when he was breathing.

"'Morning, Ana," I greeted cheerfully when I'd spotted her still stitching up the mainsail she'd been working on only yesterday.

What, in the name of God's arse, are you wearing?" she replied, and I frowned at her hostile tone.

"Well…" I began hesitantly, not wishing to give the pretty pirate any more reason to think less of me than she already did. "Last night, I… Certain events transpired—"

"And another thing," she interjected rather rudely, dropping her needlepoint and beckoning I sit myself down beside her, which I did with fairly little hesitation.

"You were saying?" I prodded whilst she glowered at me from under the brim of her straw hat. Before I knew it, I was reeling from the sudden slap across my cheek my supposed friend had dealt me.

"What was _that_ for?" I snapped at her when I'd turned back to face her wrath.

"What were you _thinking_?" she said instead, her face contorted by a scowl born solely of fury.

"What? When?"

"Last night, of course."

"…I don't know what you mean…" I said in confusion, although I had a vague (though highly unlikely) idea.

She reached out and grabbed me by the square-cut neckline of my shift, pulling me close, and I fought the urge to wince as I felt her bony fist press painfully into my chest.

"Las' night, of course," she said again. "When you'd left Sparrow for a night in the arms of that French bugger," she clarified.

"I don't see how it's any of your business, Ana," I responded in what I hoped was a casual manner.

"You were carrying another man's child, for Christ's sake," she hissed. "How _could_ you—and with _Sparrow's_ child—"

I slammed a hand over her uncharacteristically hysterical mouth, stifling her tirade. "Ana," I murmured desperately as she struggled feebly against my hand, "what the hell's gotten into you?"

"I just think it's wrong," she said, sulkily and unconvincingly, picking up the heavy canvas once more. "You shouldn't have lain with John-Francis; you should've just sat with Jack and let his abuse wash over ya, like any other normal, _devoted_ wench would've done."

The look she was giving me told me much more than the cryptic words she was uttering, and I felt a hard, icy hand grip my stomach tightly.

"He… wasn't actually drunk last night, was he?" I asked her hesitantly, and she shook her dark head.

"Brilliant actor, ain't he?" she said conversationally.

"But—why would he do that?" I enquired. "I mean, it's completely… illogical…"

"_Well_…" she said, somewhat hesitantly, "to be fair… You did sorta bring it on yourself."

"I'm _sorry_?"

Anamaria sighed in exasperation, as though I was a very slow child. "You don't know what the two of ya looked like las' night."

I raised an eyebrow. "How did we—We weren't even _doing_ anything."

"No…" she agreed. "But you were talking quite a lot… And you were sitting a little too close to 'im…"

"Ana, what are you saying?"

She shrugged slightly. "Just trying to make you see things from his point of view, is all."

"Well his point of view is crap," I told her sulkily. "And since when did _you_ start taking his side? I didn't even think you like him that much."

"I'm not taking his side," she defended. "I'm just trying to tell you what he saw."

"Yeah, but, even so…" I said, looking directly into her eyes, "That gave him no right to act drunk and say all of those things to me."

"You did push him away."

"No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did," she repeated, never once taking her eyes off of her work. I frowned, wondering why she seemed so concerned about my relationship with Jack: there was something that she wasn't telling me.

A few seconds passed as I watched her needle darting in and out of the fabric whilst wondering what could have occurred to cause such a giant rip in a sail that size, and then she cracked.

"He was just testing you, you know," she blurted out quite suddenly.

I sat up straighter. "I knew it!" I exclaimed. "I _knew_ there was something more—_Testing_ me?"

She nodded.

"Why would he do that?"

"How am I s'posed to know?" she shot back.

"The same way you knew he was actually sober and just _pretending_ to be drunk," I said calmly.

She hesitated for just a moment. "Sparrow _might've_ mentioned somethin' to Gibbs, who _could've_ let something slip to me."

"Yes…?" I said, tilting my head to the side. "And…? Did he tell you _why_ Jack though it'll be fun to insult coconuts and call me a whore?"

"Well, no…" she answered, and I fell back onto the sand with a scowl. "But it's not exactly hard to figure out, is it?"

I looked up at her in puzzlement, and immediately regretted the decision as sunlight immediately attacked my sensitive eyes. "It is?"

"Yes."

A moment passed as I attempted to unravel the enigma that was Jack Sparrow's mind. "Nope, sorry, Ana, can't see the reason."

"Oh, Christ, Sierra…" she groaned in exasperation. "Are you really so blind?"

"Yep," I happily confirmed, "so you might as well just go right ahead and tell me."

"Alright," she said, obviously determined to make me think on my own, "let's start from the beginning: what do you know about Jack Sparrow?"

What do I know about Jack Sparrow? I frowned at the odd question. "I know he's a pirate, I know he's a captain, um… he's a father… He's not as crazy as he'll have everyone think… He _can_ be good in bed when he tries, which unfortunately isn't very often—"

"Try to stay on topic, love," Ana advised me. "Anything else you know about him?"

"Um… no, actually…"

"Oh, come _on_!" she urged. "There must be _something_ else…"

"Well, I can give you a highly-detailed physical description—"

"That won't be necessary," she said quickly. "You really are quite self-centred, aren't you?"

"'Fraid so," I shrugged. "So, what is it that I'm meant to know about Jack which I don't but which you do?"

"Didn't anyone tell you that ten years ago he suffered a mutiny and was marooned on an—"

"_Oh_. Yeah, I already knew that," I dismissed. "But how is something that's taken place ten years ago relevant to today?"

She rolled her dark eyes in annoyance. "He's only shot his treacherous first mate a few months ago, you know."

"God, that man can hold a grudge," I marvelled.

"Try to be more sensitive, Sierra," Anamaria admonished. "It was a very traumatic time for him—he had been _betrayed_."

She said this as though that simple statement would explain everything. I, however, was still blissfully confused.

"And… How is that relevant to me?"

"…He's just not as fond of mutiny or betrayal or _infidelity_ as he used to be." She sounded as though she couldn't believe my stupidity.

"That's nonsense; I'm sure Jack's cheated on _loads_ of women in the past ten years."

"Well, he's not fond of it when it happens to him."

"I don't think anyone likes it when their partner's been unfaithful," I observed casually, and saw her eyes narrowing in frustration.

"_Sierra_," she growled, "he was testing _your_ fidelity."

"Now, why would he want to do that?"

Her response was to violently stab her needle into the fabric she was attempting to repair. "He has been marooned—"

"Spare me your amateur dramatics, Ana," I sighed. "Jack knows it's not within my power to hurt him quite that badly."

She reached out and grabbed a fistful of my hair, tugging it to indicate I sit up.

"Try to see it from _his_ point of view," she said once more. "Sparrow's been betrayed by a man he trusted with his life; he's never fully trusted anyone since, never let anyone get _close_ enough to trust."

"Can't argue with that analysis," I cheerfully chirped.

"Right—and then suddenly, out of nowhere there's this strumpet who's ingratiating herself into his more… personal life; she's on his ship, she's warming his bed, his daughter adores her—"

"We're not actually as close as you think," I interrupted, but she ignored my input.

"And she _is_ getting a little too close for comfort," she finished.

I was now watching her with keen interest. "Do you really think so?" I asked doubtfully. "'Cause I always feel he's pushing me away—"

"That's 'cause you're getting too close," she said, shamelessly reinforcing her point. "If you weren't getting close, he wouldn't be pushing you away, would he?"

"That's really twisted logic."

"Just accept the emotional involvement and move on," she advised me, which I did.

"Right, so I've gotten closer to him than he'd like…" I said. "Which led to his becoming the anti-coconut in an attempt to push me away."

"_Exactly_," she stressed. "He wanted you to go off with John—he wanted you to betray him so he'll hate you forever and now you'll _never_ get to see what's behind the wall."

"What wall?"

"The wall he put up after Barbossa stole his ship."

"Oh, _that_ wall."

"And now he can proceed with dropping you off at the next port and never seeing you again with fairly little guilt," she deadpanned, and my stomach plummeted.

"What—_what_ did you say?"

She glanced up at me from under her hat. "According to Gibbs, he wasn't actually sure of whether to keep you onboard or just dump you in a port and leave you to fend for yourself, but you made _that_ particularly difficult decision for him last night." She sounded more than slightly irritated at her captain's final decision.

"And _that's_ why you're so angry with me?" I guessed, and she nodded imperceptibly. "Because you'll miss me?"

"Well… Not so much miss you as… occasionally pine for female company…"

"You'll have Pearl…"

"She's just a child," the sewing sailor dismissed.

"And Cate, probably…"

Her eyes narrowed. "That woman is _Lucifer_," she told me, "and I'd sooner cut my arm off than spend five minutes with _her_."

I wanted to say something to my friend that would lighten the mood, but found that my throat was tightening and my eyes were beginning to sting. So instead I bit my lip and clambered to my feet, brushing the sand off of my legs and shift. "I need to… find my clothes now," I told her in a surprisingly even tone, and turned away before she could catch the tear spilling down my cheek.

* * *

I didn't see Jack at all that day, or the day after. It was obvious that he was avoiding me, and I knew why; if what Ana had said was true, Jack didn't want to risk my persuading him to keep me on his pirating vessel—which I apparently was fully capable of doing—and risk the further wrath of his crew, who it appeared would only consent to such an action if Jack allowed all of them to lie with me (with the apparent exception of Father Dickinson, who I believed wished to be given the chance of exorcising me on a weekly basis), which apparently the captain would rather not do. The same could be said of Pearl; I had only caught glimpses of her, and each and every time she was always at Cate's side. As for Flavio, he'd barely spoken two words to me, and _still_ kept Bernard at bay. Anamaria was busy carrying out tasks assigned to her, and had little time to engage in small talk with the maintenance of the _Black Pearl_ to occupy her; as for Jean-François, whilst he did talk with me and sleep with me and generally kept me company, it was obvious that he only saw our friendship as temporary, which obviously did nothing to pull me out of the well of loneliness I'd found myself drowning in.

The third night was when the conspicuously-absent captain deemed the _Black Pearl_ seaworthy and ordered his crew to set sail. It was late, late enough for me to have silently cried myself to sleep in the arms of Jean, who I'd made fully aware of my predicament—including my probable pregnancy—and I'd woke up to find that I was fully-dressed and being carried in his now-familiar arms.

"What's happening?" I asked sleepily before realising who I was addressing and repeating the query in French. He merely hushed me and told me to go back to sleep, which I'd attempted to do.

"_Capitaine,_" I heard him whispering as I began to drift off. I was aware of him holding out my limp, unmoving body, softly asking the other man to take me and warning him not to disturb my supposed slumber. A few seconds pass in which Jack silently hesitated before I felt Jean's arms melt away as another, more familiar pair took hold, and before I knew it, a nauseatingly familiar rocking had stealthily crept upon my still and vulnerable body, making me groan and nuzzle closer to my new guardian. I felt Jack's body stiffening at the movement; suddenly his grip tightened as the boat dipped, telling me that Jean had clambered in.

The journey to the _Black Pearl_ was made in utter silence, with only the playful lapping of the waves against the boat, the gentle splashing of the dipping oars, and Jack's steady heartbeat against my ear as my very effective lullaby.

"_Elle est très belle, non?_" I heard Jean say from a distance, and furrowed my brow as my hazy mind attempted to decipher exactly what the Frenchman was trying to achieve with the completely random comment-cum-query.

Jack said nothing, but I was certain he was studying my face intently from the way his oddly gentle thumb slid tenderly against my cheek as he traced the salty path a wayward tear had left behind.

"_Très belle…_" Jean-François tried again, determined as he was to get a response out of Jack—although to what point and purpose, I've no idea. "_Gentille, élégante, intelligente… Elle est une fille spéciale…_"

The captain still remained completely immune to Jean's-less-than-subtle attempts at conversation as I drifted further and further away from the realm of the living.

"Yes," Jack finally said softly, just before I was completely lost to the world, his fingers still tracing my tears. "She is."

**-x!x-**


	40. Sierra’s To Do List

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Thirty-Nine:** Sierra's To-Do List_

God, I hated Cate. Not only was she prettier than I was, she was also smarter, stronger, faster, more skilled at _everything_ she turned her hand to, more likable and therefore consequently more popular but, according to a certain rather blunt Frenchman who shall remain nameless as I've decided to stop talking to him, she was also _far_ better in bed than I was as well. However, believe it or not, this was not the most damaging effect that pretty, witty Cate had on my emotional happiness and general well-being:

Cate had also taken Pearl away from me. For good, it seems. To be perfectly honest, I'm not actually certain how she'd done it; perhaps it was her enchanting personality, or her intriguing and adventurous past, or her captivating story-telling that held the child in such rapture—traits which, as the unnamed Frenchman was quick to point out, I personally did not possess.

I'd just about had it with the unnamed Frenchman; I mean, he was still as thoughtful and considerate and charming as ever, but he was also disgustingly honest and more than ready to point out my numerous faults and shortcomings. And to think I'd once thought him attractive.

"If _that's_ what you think," I'd said sulkily to the unnamed Frenchman in the days before I'd stumbled upon the bright idea of imposing a talking ban, "why don't you sleep with her instead?"

To which the unnamed Frenchman had replied with a vague snort that, over the years he'd come to respect the pretty pirate far too much to even contemplate such an act, a statement which had resulted in a slap and the initiation of the talking ban.

However, it did leave me with one pressing question which I then put to Flavio:

"How does Jean know what Cate's like in bed if he respects her too much to sleep with her?" I'd asked the _masculine_ individual when he'd stumbled into the galley, his hair disarrayed and his countenance one of frenzied panic.

"I've lost Bernard!" was his relevant reply—and without any prior warning, he'd collapsed onto the floorboards and suddenly burst into tears that had me abandoning the potatoes and flying towards him to offer a comforting hug.

"Keep your unholy bosom away!" he'd screeched, and I immediately drew back with my arms crossing protectively over my chest.

"Have you met Father Dickenson?" I enquired suspiciously as Flavio continued to bawl his eyes out.

"B—B—Bernard!" was his helpful response. I awkwardly reached out and patted his shoulder, murmuring soothing, meaningless nothings whilst wondering what it was about the eighteenth century that required the majority of the inhabitants to act so… insane.

"_Bernardo mio!_ My Bernie!"

"We'll look for your Bernie in a moment," I murmured comfortingly before deciding to change tact. "Come now Flavio, pull yourself together!" I egged rousingly, placing a hand on his shuddering shoulder. "This isn't how _masculine_ men act now, is it?"

Flavio paused his perpetual sobbing to glare indignantly at me through teary violet eyes. "But I'm a wo—man," he altered as he remembered exactly who he was addressing.

"_Exactly_," I agreed, silently praying I hadn't sounded too sarcastic, "and manly men don't cry now, do they?"

Flavio sniffled slightly. "No…" he agreed childishly.

"And I'm sure Bernard—whatever he may be—is fully capable of keeping himself safe," I continued, an innocent statement which caused Flavio to look up at me through tear-stained eyes.

"But what about _Bermuda_?" he whined plaintively, and I furrowed my brow.

"Bermuda?" I repeated with a frown, and he nodded enthusiastically. "Who's Bermuda?"

At that very moment, a small, tiny, minuscule—smaller than the palm of my hand, actually—sand-coloured creature leapt onto the fingers I had placed on Flavio's shoulder in a comforting gesture, causing me to jump back with a shriek of horror.

"_Oh my fucking God!_" I'd yelped, in my panic forgetting that it was unladylike to employ such strong oaths in everyday conversation as the creature latched tightly onto my middle finger. "_What the hell is that!_" For the furry creature was an animal I had never seen before.

"It's Bermuda!" Flavio wailed, attempting to immobilise me. "Leave Burmie-Wurmie alone, she won't hurt you!"

I froze as my mind registered the embarassingly affectionate nickname. "What…" I gasped in horror, "_is_ she?"

"Bernard's illegitimate fifth cousin by marriage, eight times removed," Flavio explained as his fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist to prevent me from attempting to shake Bermuda off. "She enjoys stargazing, dining on various nuts by candlelight, long walks on the beach, and is currently searching for that special someone with whom she can share all of these interests and more," he added, and I shot him a faintly worried look.

"Come here, Bermuda," he coaxed, which only made the tiny creature cling tighter. "_Aww_," he cooed, oblivious to my distress, "she likes you…"

"Get her off!" It would probably be very redundant to put down that the feeling wasn't mutual.

Flavio raised his other hand and fondly petted Bermuda's golden coat. I saw two tiny little black eyes close at the sensation; within seconds, Bermuda had released her vice-like grip on my finger and had pounced onto the lavender cuff of Flavio's coat, clinging affectionately to the foppish material.

"_Good_ Bermuda," he cooed, as though the creature was a child. "Now what have I told you about sneaking out of my pocket?"

To my utter surprise and fascination, Bermuda lowered her tiny head in what appeared to be shame.

"That's alright," Flavio smiled indulgently. "I'll like you to meet Sierra, in any case; she's the pretty one I told you about who's going to help us find Bernard."

I understandably started at this revelation, looking down at Bermuda in distrust.

"Hold out your hand," Flavio said to me, and I violently shook my head. Tears welled up in his eyes, and I immediately extended the limb whilst silently cursing the power of emotional blackmail. Bermuda immediately leapt from her master's hand to my own, landing skilfully in the middle of my palm, sitting quite still as she allowed me to inspect her.

Bermuda was a small, rodent-like creature, about half the size of my palm, maybe less, with a mouse-like head and body, kangaroo-like hind legs, and an extremely long, rat-like tail. When the creature wasn't bouncing about like a rodent form of Pearl, she was actually quite adorable, and I felt my heart softening as I watched her tiny paws reach up to brush her long, wispy whiskers.

"Say 'hello,' Bermuda," Flavio instructed sternly, and Bermuda automatically rested back on her tiny hind legs, raising a little paw in greeting.

"She's so adorable!" I squeaked at the friendly and oddly human gesture, my initial disgust completely forgotten.

"As is her legitimate eight times removed fifth cousin by marriage…" Flavio's voice faltered, and he turned away so I need not see the tears he wished to silently shed for his long-lost Bernard. "He only disappeared just this morning, you know…"

Suddenly he fell to his knees, wrapping his arms tightly about my leg and ignoring my initial stumble as he looked pleadingly up into my eyes.

"Please help us find him!" he begged. "We're scared and lost and lonely without our Bernard, and this ship is very big and scary…"

I was moved by his plight. Really, I was. However, I had my own troubles to occupy me: Pearl's obstinate avoidance, Jack's utter disregard for my very existence, Jean-François' firm belief that I was inferior to his precious Cate in every way, and of course, the minor, unimportant things, such as the child I was carrying, or what I was going to do when thrown off at the next port, troubles which I then related to Flavio, a lengthy speech which concluded with, "…I've many things to deal with already without looking for your pet."

Flavio clung to my skirt in stunned silence when I'd finished, and it was only after Bermuda had leapt from my hand to his golden head that he said something of any use.

"You sound rather busy," he remarked in childlike wonder.

"I am," I agreed, trying to wrench my leg, which was slowly turning numb, from Flavio's unbreakable hug. "I've many loose ends to tie up, and not much time to tie them in."

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if you wrote down everything you must accomplish in order of precedence," he suggested, and I looked blankly down at him.

"What, a to-do list?"

"Exactly," he agreed, nodding enthusiastically, "so you can make sure all of the important things get done—Ooh! If you write everything down, you can cross them off when you've done them!" And he bounced a little at his own genius, causing me to loose my balance once more.

"Well?" he questioned excitedly, looking hopefully up at me with shining eyes. "What do you think? Is it not a most brilliant plan?"

I hated to burst his bubble. Really, I did. Which was why I merely said "No" and left my answer at that.

"_Why not?_" he wailed, his face crestfallen that I'd rejected his heartfelt idea so swiftly.

"Well, several reasons, Flavio," I replied, feeling oddly callous, "the first being that I do not possess paper, ink, or a writing implement of any kind; secondly, in spite of my ethereal face, seductive body, and animalistic obssession with fornication, I _do_ in fact possess the mental capacity required for storing all tasks and duties I must attend to in my mind; the third, and perhaps most important of all, Flavio…" And I leant down the better to pry off his clingy hands, "I am not that pathetic."

* * *

"How did you talk me into this?" I asked disgruntledly as Flavio and I broke into Jack's cabin later that day. "What if we get caught? And all for a measly list!"

"We won't get caught," Flavio assured me with a dismissive gesture of his hand. "Calm down, Bermuda," he said to the coat pocket where the creature was safely stashed away. "We'll begin the search for our Bernard as soon as Sierra gets her list together."

"How can you be sure we won't get caught?" I asked the Bernard-less man.

"Because, _sedano_," Flavio said plainly, and I narrowed my eyes at being called a masculine celery, "the only way such a tragic event could ever occur was if _il bello_ Jackia and sweet Gattina are overcome with the sudden urge to create a double-backed creature during this most sunny of luncheons."

…I think that was Flavio's way of saying the only way the two of us could be caught breaking and entering was if Jack and Cate decided to have sex during their lunch break, but I couldn't be sure…

"I suppose you're right," I said, almost certain that Jack and Cate _would_ have sex during their lunch break and silently damning my weak will. "Let's hurry then."

We both made our way to Jack's desk, which was cluttered with a few maps and miscellaneous papers, where a lidded pot of ink and battered quill waited tauntingly for us. I opened the first drawer I found, hunting for some scrap paper, and finding plenty; mostly letters that had been written in a sharp, elegant script that I knew was not Jack's almost aristocratic curl. Some of the sheets were dusty and yellowed with age, but I went for a more recent edition in the subconscious hope that I was taking an important document belonging to Jack, the absence of which would hopefully inconvenience him. Actually, I took several sheets, even though I only needed one. I wasn't feeling at all malicious.

"Right," I said, settling down into the chair and unlidding the ink, "where should I begin?"

"Start with the easier ones," Flavio suggested, taking a crisp blank sheet for himself and hunting through another drawer for a quill, "like proving to my Jean that you are tolerable between the sheets."

I frowned at his suggestion. "_Yes_…" I agreed, "but that's really more of an ongoing process, isn't it? And I can't prove it to him anyway—I've stopped talking to him."

Flavio had pulled up another chair and was seated directly opposite me, dipping his own quill into the unlidded ink. "Who said you had to talk?" he pointed out as he leant over his own parchment, and I nodded in agreement.

"You've got a point," I agreed. "And he is pretty good, in spite of all of his personality flaws…" And I put Flavio's suggestion down without another moment's hesitation.

"Find Bernard," Flavio said next, his own quill scratching away, and I shook my head.

"Flavio, isn't the purpose of this list-making to make sure that I get everything _else_ out of the way first and _then_ help you hunt for Bernard?" Flavio grunted in response, working tiredlessly on his own project. I rolled my eyes and returned to my own page, and we continued working on our own respective tasks for the next ten minutes or so, at which point I'd put down my quill and announced I was finished.

"I need a little while longer," Flavio grunted in response, and I wondered how many tasks he himself had to complete.

"Can I see what you've got?" I asked curiously, and he hesitated before his eyes lit up.

"Actually, you can help me finish it," he said, setting his own writing implement down on the desk. "You know more about the subject matter than I do."

I frowned, uncertain of his meaning, until he handed the sheet over and I was looking down at a highly detailed, uncannily lifelike, and vaguely pornographic sketch of a certain pirate captain.

"Um…" I said, a little taken aback at what I had been presented with. "Flavio…"

"Yes?" he said, sounding eager to hear his work critiqued.

"…I had no idea you were so fond of Jack," I said lamely. "Or that you'd seen so much of him," I added under my breath as I tilted my head to the side to examine the drawing.

"I haven't," Flavio said cheerily, leaning back in his chair and looking very pleased with himself. "Is it accurate? I didn't really go into much detail at _that_ part, as you can see; I personally was hoping to find out firsthand, but since you're here…"

I tore my gaze away, feeling faintly flustered; Jack's brown eyes were as seductive on paper as they were in real life. Flavio was an extremely talented artist—with a very filthy imagination, not that I was one to talk.

"Well?" he demanded, leaning over to pick up my own list. "Are you going to help me?"

I hesitated. "You have to answer a question first," I began. "Is _this_—" and I waved the sheet in the air "—art, or is it porn?"

He looked at me, blinking his large violet eyes in confusion. "What's porn?" he asked next, and I felt a fresh wave of heated embarassment wash over my cheeks; once again, I had forgotten that the English language had developed since the eighteenth century.

"It's… um…" I said uncertainly. "A piece of… art—or—or literature, for that matter, that… that…"

"That…?" Flavio prodded, golden brows furrowed at my uncharacteristic embarassment.

"That had been… created with the sole purpose in mind of… of, um…" I giggled nervously as his expression grew more and more confused. "Of stirring… certain feelings within the voyeur—observer or reader."

"That is the purpose of most art and literature," Flavio helpfully pointed out, and I nodded in agreement.

"That is true, but porn aims to… to elicit a _particular_ feeling," I said meaningfully. "The sort of emotion that may lead to… other activities…"

"What other activities?" Flavio enquired, still blissfully naïve thanks to my unhelpful explanations. "Do you mean walks in the park or gardens—stretching out your legs and getting a bit of fresh air after being cooped up inside for so long, reading and staring at portraits?"

There was a very awkward pause. "Not quite…" I responded. "Actually, porn, you see, it… It's a stimulant, which might lead to…" I faltered, and pointed at the bed instead. Flavio followed my finger, let out an understanding "_Oh_," and turned once more to face me, snatching his sketch from out of my sweaty fingers.

"_This_," Flavio said indignantly, "is an innocent piece of art—an emotive piece—an expression of the artist—a silent message—why, you might even go so far as to call it an in-depth study of society—or even religion!"

"Really?" I asked, sounding vaguely impressed.

"Nah, it's porn," he admitted, and I nodded, not at all surprised; Flavio, despite his contrary beliefs, really was a man deep down.

"In that case, I will help," I replied, walking so I was standing next to Flavio and peering at his unfinished sketch. "Right, Jack has a shot wound there…" My finger rested at one particular point on the sheet. "And there… There are burns over there that kind of cross over each other on that part of his arm… He's got a tattoo right there, of a little bird flying over the sea during a sunset, it's flying that way… Yeah, like that…"

And on and on I dictated, a one-sided conversation which was unfortunately interrupted by the sudden sound of approaching footsteps accompanied by a familiar feminine giggle. We both froze, staring at each other in fear. I was the first to regain control of my body, stuffing the papers down my bodice, and after another moment Flavio followed suit, folding the sketch as delicately as he could before jamming it into his own pocket. "Guard that with your life, Bermuda," he hissed.

"What are we going to do?" I whispered in panic. "There's only one way out!"

"We hide," Flavio replied.

"Where?"

As one, we both turned towards the bed, tucked innocently to the side, the sheets faintly rumpled. Without any form of communication passing between us, we both dived under the wooden structure, scrambling and cursing as we both pulled in any wayward limbs or clothing.

"This is a stupid hiding place," I remarked quietly as the door slowly opened. "The bed is the first place they'll go to. How do you suggest we get out?"

"Well…" Flavio whispered back as two pairs of boots stumbled into the cabin. "Maybe they only came up here to pick up a… map…"

I shot him a disbelieving look. "And if it turns out they _aren't_ looking for a map?" I hissed.

"We'll wait until they're… distracted enough, and crawl out to the cabin door to freedom," he offered lamely as I heard Cate let out a gasp as Jack… did something that caused her to react in that manner. I saw him squeeze his blue eyes tightly shut in an attempt to block out his sister's low moan, whilst I myself wriggled uncomfortably.

"Flavio, I'd rather not wait that long!"

"I think it's too late," Flavio pointed out grimly, and I felt my stomach churning in horror at what we were about to audibly witness.

Oddly enough, we were rescued by Cate. Well, Cate and Bermuda, who had crawled out of her master's coat pocket and had leapt across the cabin before landing on what I believed was Cate's leg, causing her to shriek in horror at the sensation of a rodent latching firmly onto her calf.

"What's the matter?" I heard Jack ask, sounding more irritated than he did concerned.

"Nothing," Cate replied, and there was a scrambling sound which I took to be her reaching down to pry Bermuda off of her boot. "It's Flavio's blasted pet, that's all. He said he'd lost one of them."

"How did it get in here?" Jack enquired.

"Who knows? It's a tiny little desert rat, it probably snuck in when we left this morning. He'll be so happy to know that it's safe—Jack, what are you doing?" she added as I heard the tell-tale sounds of Jack's lips caressing her skin.

"You aren't going to take it back _now_, are you?" I heard his disbelieving voice question.

"I have to," she said, and there was the faintest undertone of annoyance in her voice. "This little thing jumps everywhere—it'll interrupt us if we leave it in here, and that will be more than a little awkward."

I glanced at Flavio, who was looking unabashedly relieved that his sister and captain were planning on leaving the cabin to search for Bermuda's owner.

"I'll only be gone for five minutes," Cate continued as Jack began to speak. Her voice became suddenly playful as she added, "I'm sure you'll think of _some_ way to entertain yourself until then."

I heard Jack chuckle as she made her way to the door, a pleasant sound which stopped as soon as the door slammed shut. Flavio and I both glanced at each other, both of us relieved that one of the two obstacles standing between us and freedom had been removed, and silently thanking Bermuda for her quick thinking.

Now all that was left was Jack.

I bit my lip as I heard his footsteps move away to his desk, racking my brain for a plan and coming up empty-handed. It seemed that there was only one way I could get us out of this cabin—and that was by revealing myself to the captain.

"Stay here," I whispered to Flavio. "I'll distract him, and then you sneak out and keep Cate occupied, alright?"

"How are you going to distract him?" he hissed back, and I shot him a disbelieving look.

"I'll seduce him, of course," I answered, as though he had asked me what colour the sky was. "Which is why I need you to keep Cate busy, until I find you again, understand?"

Flavio looked as though he was about to cry.

"I thought you loved me," he nearly sniffled. "And yet, here you are, about to seduce another man—"

I gaped at him in bewilderment. "But I'm doing it for _you_," I said—which was partly true. "You—You're the love of my life, Flavio," I added for effect. "So shut up." And without another word, I had crawled from under the furniture, dusting myself a little as I stood, and looked up at Jack, preparing myself for when he inevitably asked: "What were you doing under the bed?"

Oddly enough, Jack didn't notice. He was at the far end of the cabin, rummaging through a small little cabinet containing what I had reason to believe were various liquors. This sudden turn of events threw me into a whirlpool of uncertainty: should I sneak towards the door, and save myself? Or should I honour my promise to Flavio, and jump on Jack?

I'm ashamed to say that I chose the former—and had just opened one of the double doors when an audible creak had Jack straightening to face me, a half-formed smile on his face immediately disappearing when he realised that I was not Cate.

"Have you been avoiding me?" I demanded before he could ask me what I was doing here. "I haven't seen you for five days now, not since—the night of the coconuts."

Jack was looking decidedly caught offguard; he'd clearly been expecting me to behave with a little more decorum than I was currently displaying. "Of course I haven't been avoiding you, sweetheart," he said, closing the carved wooden door of the cabinet. "I've just been—indisposed—"

"Yeah, and I know who you've been _indisposed_ with," I commented nastily whilst silently congratulating myself on my superb acting—for, though my sentiments concerning Jack and Cate were sincere, my clichéd manner of expressing them were not.

He smiled amicably at me. "Come now, Sierra, we both know that neither of us are victims."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I didn't come here to play the victim, Jack," I snapped.

He arched a dark eyebrow. "Oh really? What did you come here for?"

Oh, bollocks; I had no idea how to answer that question. I knew I couldn't tell him the truth, that a wanton female impersonator had convinced me to write up a list of all of the various tasks I aimed to accomplish before I was stranded in an unknown port, and that after _that_ was achieved I had offered suggestions to help improve a pornographic sketch said female impersonator had drawn up.

Or couldn't I?

"I bumped into Flavio," I began, "and told him of my various troubles and concerns. He then convinced me that it would be a wonderful idea if we broke into your cabin and I listed my various worries in order of importance, and ways in which these trifling concerns of mine can be overcome. Halfway through, we both got bored and decided to draw naked and unflattering pictures of you instead. We dived under your bed when we heard you coming in, and I've just crawled out and was in the middle of leaving your cabin for good when you turned around and caught me in this particularly compromising position. And now here we are."

There was a lengthy pause in which Jack gaped at me, before a slow smile curled at his lips, and then he was shaking his head in disbelief whilst chuckling with amusement. I allowed a small grin of victory to steal onto my own face; they did say the best lies were based on truths, after all…

"I came to see you," I said, allowing my eyes to drop to the floor whilst I kept my voice meek with guilt. "I just… I know I'm in no position to ask anything of you, especially after… You know, that night you pretended to be drunk and I fell for it, but…" I allowed my eyes, which by now were looking quite downcast and sorrowful, to rise and meet his own searching gaze.

"I miss you," I concluded dolefully, amazed at my acting ability; I had missed Jack, I won't lie about that—but I would have never allowed him to believe his waning interest in me had turned me into a vulnerable, shivering wreck. "I don't want you to leave Cate—I don't want you to take me back—"

"But you _do_ want me to take you?" Jack deadpanned, and I nodded. "What about Jean?"

Ah, now this was a part in the conversation that required no fabrication whatsoever.

"Jean said I was bad in bed!" I nearly wailed, and was rewarded by his face contorting with horrified, ill-suppressed rage.

"He didn't," Jack growled out.

"Yes, he did!"

"You poor girl," Jack sympathised. "Come here." And I threw myself across the cabin and into his arms as though I was the heroine of some cheesy romance novel.

"I was wondering why you were acting so upset," he murmured into my hair. "I knew there was something more than just you missing me, if indeed you ever did pine for me…"

"I _did_ miss you…" I assured him sulkily. "And I'm _not_ bad in bed, am I?"

"Of course you're not," Jack reassured me, his hand rubbing my back soothingly.

"And Cate _isn't_ better than me, is she?" I said next, and felt Jack stiffening. Insulted, I stepped back and looked into his brown eyes whilst silently praying that the buxom blonde was still hunting for her brother. "_Is_ she?" I repeated with an arched brow.

"To be honest love, it's been so long since we've last—"

"So long? It's barely been over a week!"

"—since we've last lain together, I've half-forgotten what you're like," he finished unpertubedly, and I saw my chance.

"How about I remind you?" I murmured into his ear as I wrapped my arms about his neck. Still clinging tightly onto him, I spun the both of us around so that I was pressed against the wall with his body against my own—which would give Flavio the perfect chance to escape, if I could keep Jack distracted long enough.

"Ah," Jack said, half-heartedly trying to escape my grip—I knew he didn't seriously want to move from his position, or he would have pulled me off of him by now. "But then I'll be biased."

"So what do you suggest?" I asked innocently, although I already knew what was on his mind. "That all three of us sleep together at once—probably several times, just to make certain that everything is fair, and then you'll be in a position to pass an unbiased and carefully deliberated judgement?"

"Just to make certain that the final decision is fair," Jack agreed, his hands now resting on either side of my head. My first instinct was to slap him and call him a disgusting, selfish pig for even _thinking_ of such an arrangement, but I decided to let Cate do that for me. And besides, there was Flavio to consider; I had to keep Jack interested in me for long enough so that the blond can escape.

And sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a golden-haired figure wriggling out from beneath the largest furnishing in the cabin. He shot us a curious glance before clambering onto his hands and knees and crawling as silently as he could to the partly-opened cabin door.

I turned my attention back to Jack, biting my lower lip in a manner which I knew he found distracting. "Well…" I said indecisively, although I'd already made my decision, which unfortunately for Jack began with an 'N' and ended with an 'O.' "To be honest, Jack…" And I sighed deeply, looking up at him through my lashes. "I'm not really certain if I want to; I _might_ change my mind if… Oh, wait, you wouldn't be interested…" I added as the door was silently pushed open and I saw Flavio, still on his hands and knees, make a mad dash for freedom.

"Oh, wouldn't I?" he murmured, completely oblivious to the fact that his current lover's brother had just successfully escaped the confines of his cabin. I looked up into his eyes once more.

"I'll only do it if you'll marry me," I deadpanned, and watched with some amusement as his mischievous smirk was wiped away to be replaced with a look of terror. "I've told myself a long time ago that I would only take part in a threesome with another woman as a wedding gift to my husband," I explained.

"Well, if that's the case, any man would truly be lucky to have you as his wife," he quipped, and just like that, the intimacy was shattered. He drew away from me, and I straightened, adjusting my bodice whilst surreptitiously making certain the various pages I had stolen were still stashed there.

"I suppose I'll best take my leave," I said mildly. "Cate could be back any moment now." And I pushed past Jack before he could say or do anything to convince me to stay, slamming the door behind me for dramatic effect.

Flavio was waiting for me on the other side, a look of pure envy on his face.

"_I_ could've seduced him," he said sulkily, and I reached up to kiss his pouting cheek.

"I'll let you do so next time," I assured him, patting his shoulder affectionately. "Now, how about we find Cate and Bermuda, get something to eat, and after that look for Bernard?"

Flavio squealed excitedly and nodded happily in response.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Let's get some points cleared up: Bernard is actually a jerboa, and Bermuda is a pygmy jerboa. I've tried to describe Bermuda as best I can, but I suggest Googling these terms to get an idea of what they look like if you can't picture them. So, apologies for leading you all to believe you can guess what Flavio's pets are; I was just teasing you all.


	41. First Kisses

**AN:** Yet another delayed update, and a somewhat pointless one too. But hopefully, it shall provide you all with some amusement.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

**_Chapter Forty:_** _First Kisses_

"…and I wouldn't have thrown myself so desperately at him either," Flavio lectured later that evening as he continued to follow me and my list about. "_I'd_ have been far, far subtler in my amorous pursuits—"

"_Flavio_," I groaned tiredly, "I've already told you I was merely trying to keep Jack so that _you_ can sneak out. Will you please shut up?"

"Men don't particularly enjoy it when women are more aggressive or dominant than they are," Flavio continued regardless, and my fists clenched of their own accord. "It makes them feel castrated—"

"Castra—no, it doesn't!"

"Yes, it does," Flavio corrected.

"Do you even know what castration is?" I challenged.

"Of course I do," Flavio returned, looking vaguely insulted. "It's to deprive a man of his manliness."

"It's to deprive a man of his genitalia," I corrected. "I think you mean _emasculated_."

"Not all dominant or aggressive women deprive men of their testicles, _sedano_," Flavio preached patronisingly. "As I was saying, it makes men feel _castrated_—"

"No, emasculated."

"_Castrated!_" Flavio exclaimed. "And _I_ should know!"

"How?" I challenged, and saw Flavio draw himself up in pride.

"_Because_," Flavio stated slowly, "I myself was once a eunuch."

There was a very awkward pause.

"No, you weren't," I dismissed. "I know you weren't." An impish smirk pulled at my lips. "You're anything _but_ a eunuch, Flavio."

"Well, I'm not now," Flavio agreed, tossing his hair back over his shoulder. "But once upon a time, I was incapable."

"Impotence happens to every man at one point or another, Flavio," I agreed. "But that does not mean that you are a eunuch. It just means you're either too old, too young, gay, or just laughable."

"But I _was_ a eunuch," he insisted. He seemed oddly proud of the fact. "I was admitted into a harem in Istanbul—would they allow me to enter such a place had I not been a eunuch?"

I was looking at him through narrowed eyes. "Flavio…" I said suspiciously, "Were you by any chance wearing a dress when you entered this harem?"

"No, _sedano_," Flavio said sweetly, "I was not."

"Alright, let me rephrase that: Were you by any chance dressed in… female clothing?"

"_Well_…" Flavio said, lowering his lashes and smiling abashedly, "I did have a lovely sky blue veil—really brought out my eyes—and lovely silken _shalwars_ in peacock blue, and my belt was—" And he stopped, his pretty eyes widening.

"Yes, Flavio?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

He looked up at me in wonder. "_Sedano_," he said dazedly. "I wasn't a eunuch at all…"

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really?" I deadpanned.

"No; I was a concubine…" He furrowed his brow. "My, my, but this is a _very_ unexpected twist… Little ole me; a concubine!" he said fondly, then paused, his face contorting. "How positively disgusting…"

"Well, it's all in the past now," I comforted.

"Why did I think I was a eunuch?" Flavio muttered to himself, brow creased with worry.

"Who cares?"

"There must be a reason…" he continued to ramble, ignoring me completely. "There must be… What is it, though? Hmm… This will require some thought…"

"Um, Flavio?" I said, a little concerned.

"Eunuch, eunuch, eunuch… How many eunuchs have I met?" And he began to count on his fingers, strolling pass me and leaving me standing in the wooden hall, absolutely flabbergasted. "Nasir, Ali, Adel, Ghalib, Fawzi—of course! Yusef!"

"Who?" I asked as I gathered my skirts and trotted after him.

"Oh, it's all so _clear_ to me now," he breathed. "I'm so happy, I might just burst into song."

"If you must, Flavio; but I'm curious—"

"_Come, thou rosy dimpled boy,_" Flavio began obnoxiously, and I started at the unexpected and unfamiliar tune. "_Source of every—_"

"Yes, Flavio!" I snapped, and he started at my harsh tone, looking at me forlornly. "Sorry," I said in all sincerity, "but I'm a little confused; who's Yusef, and what does he have to do with you believing you were a eunuch, and aren't you meant to be the daughter of a duchess?"

"The Duke of Venice," Flavio corrected automatically. "_Grand_daughter of the _Grand_ Duke of Venice."

I looked at him from the corner of my eyes. "First of all, the title of 'Grand Duke' doesn't actually exist," I reminded. "And second of all, Venice has been a republic for over a thousand years; there _is_ no aristocracy. Now tell me about the eunuch."

Flavio was scowling at me, clearly offended that I was able to debunk his claim of being a female descendant of great and noble blood.

"Yusef," he said at last, in a slow and sullen manner, "was a guard at the Place of Shameless Concubinage. He smuggled me out, dressed as a eunuch, in exchange for sexual favours."

I was uncertain of how to respond to this. "…_Why?_" I said at long last.

"Well, I wasn't going to just stay there and prostitute my beautiful self to an aging, repulsive man for material gain—I am neither my mother nor my sister—"

"No, Flavio," I said, "I meant—why did he ask you for sexual favours?"

Flavio crossed his arms and positively glowered at me. "I don't believe this," he hissed at me. "First you doubt my most distinguished and aristocratic lineage, and now you insult my undeniable beauty. You, my dear, are _uno sedano malvagio_ of the first degree."

I pouted in frustration. "Flavio, if you are going to stoop so low as to call me an evil celery of the first degree, can you at least make me a feminine one?"

"_U**no** seda**no** malvagi**o**_," Flavio repeated tauntingly, and I reached out and slapped him. He promptly burst into tears, which soon subsided as suddenly as they appeared.

"Why did Yusef the eunuch ask you for sexual favours?" I repeated as soon as he was beaming again.

Flavio shrugged. "Well, you know how wanton eunuchs are…"

I've long since learnt that if Flavio believed in something strongly enough, it was impossible to change his mind; therefore, I did not bother to correct to him. "Well, Flavio," I said, patting his arm most amicably, "it's been fun today; the list-making, the hunt for Bernard, the demonstration of Bermuda's little lock-picking abilities… But it's late, and I must now retire. Good night." And with this, I continued down the hall to what was now mine, but had originally been (and technically still was) Pearl's cabin.

"_Sedano!_" Flavio cried out most desperately. "Don't leave me alone here!"

I paused at the door, turning to look at him with my eyebrow raised. "Don't you have night watch or duties or… something like that?" I queried, and Flavio shook his head.

"I'm scared of the dark…" he whimpered, pouting most adorably as his eyes began to water, and I sighed.

"Alright, you can stay with me," I permitted, rolling my eyes as the man bounded happily towards me. Before I quite knew what was happening, his arms had wrapped around me, his lips pressed rather fervently against my own. I stumbled in surprise at the unexpected onslaught of passion, my hands reaching up to grab at his shoulders in order to both balance myself and push him away.

"What the hell was that!" I snapped when I had eventually succeeded.

Flavio blinked in hurt confusion. "Our first kiss, of course…" he said, speaking as dejectedly as a badly-behaved schoolboy.

I looked at him in horror. "That was a _kiss_?" I repeated disbelievingly, and Flavio released an offended gasp. "_Why?_"

"Well, we had to have a first kiss _sometime_, hadn't we?" he pointed out. "Everybody has to have a first kiss…"

"But… I wasn't… We aren't… You did not—" I stuttered stupidly.

"I remember my first ever kiss, you know," Flavio cut across dreamily, and I looked at his face to see that his eyes were now dazed and heavily unfocused. "Most people don't, but _I_ do."

"Oh, congratulations," I said, silently wondering why I cared.

"It was a little bit like _our_ first kiss—" he interrupted himself with a nervous, girlish giggle. "Only less spontaneous—and with more garlic."

"…Pre-planned garlic, Flavio?" I must confess, I was slightly intrigued.

"Oh yes," Flavio said with several extremely enthusiastic nods. "You see, my very, very, _very_ first love was a Dominican monk—or was he a nun?—who was especially fond of garlic bread. He was a nice girl, a very sweet and caring boy—terrible breath though."

"That's awful," I sympathised, and Flavio's blond head bobbed up and down once again as he nodded in dejected agreement. "What _did_ you see in him?"

"_Her_," Flavio corrected automatically. "He was a nun… I think. And I'm not actually certain—" he stopped once again, and let out a shy, school-girlish giggle. "I personally think it was the wimple," he confessed conspiratorially, and I nodded whilst wondering how exactly this odd human being ever became my friend. "And of course, she was an absolutely beautiful Dominican monk—absolutely beautiful."

"Yeah," I said, now thoroughly bored of this conversation and wishing I could escape. "Listen, Flavio, I—"

"Soft, flowing auburn hair, cascading down her strong broad shoulders like a waterfall of burnt gold," Flavio continued languorously. "Flawless alabaster skin and beautiful emerald eyes—" He paused yet again, his brow furrowed. "Or were they blue…?" Something vaguely resembling worry crossed his features. "Come to think of it, she could have been a brunette—"

"But you just said her hair was auburn," I pointed out, my hand silently fumbling for the doorknob, my fingers' activities hidden from his increasingly-confused view by the rest of my body.

"Well, _yes_…" Flavio said conversationally. "But there's the beard to be considered."

"The—the beard?"

"Oh yes. I'm certain the beard was brown—then again, I had written a sonnet for my wanton nun in which I likened her beard to the sun, so—"

"_Flavio_," I said seriously, "are you _sure_ your impious nun wasn't actually a monk?"

"Positive," Flavio replied. "How else could she have dressed me up in a nun's habit and wimple and then take me roughly from behind if she was a monk?"

I just stared at him.

"I mean, if my first love was a monk, then _where_ did the wimple come from?" he gestured with his hands in a manner disturbingly like Jack's. "How could he have gotten hold of a wimple if she was actually a he instead of a she that he said that he was?"

I was at this point thoroughly confused, as you can imagine; was the first love of Flavio's life a man, a woman, or a figment of his imagination? And how did we get onto this disturbing and confusing subject in the first place?

"Alright, Flavio," I said at long last. "What was his—?"

"_Her_."

"Sorry, _her_—"

"No, actually, his."

"Flavio!" I reprimanded with a slap. He promptly burst into tears, which I ignored. "What was the name of the first love of your life?" I said calmly as he continued to sob.

"Oh, Maria," Flavio said offhandedly, his tears having miraculously evaporated.

"Maria," I repeated. "Good," I nodded, turning back to my door at long last.

"Or was it Mario?" he muttered to himself, and I felt the beginning of a headache coming on.

"You don't _know_?" I rounded on him.

"Of course I do!" Flavio said defensively. "Everyone remembers their first kiss! His name was Margherita."

"His?"

"Or Salvatore…" Flavio added sheepishly.

"Alright, Flavio, let's narrow it down by gender; your lover had a beard—"

"But he _was_ a woman," Flavio insisted. "A Franciscan nun, I'll have you know."

"But you just said she was a Dominican—"

"On second thoughts, he could have been a Cistercian… Or was she Benedictine?"

"Flavio!" I bellowed, my temper snapping, and he visibly flinched. "Once and for all, what is its _name_?"

"…Sancha," Flavio said meekly, backing away from me, and I raised a dubious eyebrow. "Yes, her name was Sancha."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"…Well…" I said, uncomfortably aware of yelling at him. "Sancha… That's a very pretty name…"

"Yes, it is," he agreed.

An uncomfortable silence fell between us.

"That being said, she could have been called Lucrezia…"

I squeezed my eyelids tightly shut in frustration.

"Or Alfonso, actually; he could have been a man…"

And of course, we were back at the beginning…

"Do you know, she might not have been a nun after all; there's a very slight chance that he was the atheist mistress of the Duke of Urbino…"

"Well, you know what, Flavio?" I interjected rudely, feeling rather frustrated. "I would love to stay and chat, but as Anamaria told us when we were dining on that suspiciously-moving stew, this ship docks in Kingston tomorrow, and I need to go and gather all of my belongings for when I am inevitably thrown off of this beautiful, majestic vessel. Good night." And with this rather cold farewell, I turned my back on Flavio and, at long last, opened the door.

"_Sedano_," Flavio called out tearfully, and I glanced back over my shoulder. "Do you remember _your_ first kiss?"

I scowled at him. "Of course I remember my first kiss," I answered, affronted.

"What was it like?" he eagerly enquired.

I hesitated, not because I didn't remember, but because I didn't want to share. "Affectionate," I said at last. "Romantic. Sweet."

"Details, _sedano_," Flavio demanded. "Details. What did she look like?"

"She?" I repeated, wondering if he'd gotten his pronouns confused once more.

"Yes, she," Flavio repeated. "I know you like women."

I had never been accused of lesbianism before. I wasn't actually certain how to react. "How do you know?" I finally settled for.

"_Everybody_ knows," Flavio shared. "Jackia knows, Gattina knows, that priest with the seductive wig called Father Dickenson who keeps trying to get me drunk so he can get me into bed knows—_everybody_."

"Oh, damn," I deadpanned drolly. "What gave me away?"

"Well," Flavio began, tossing his lovely golden locks over his shoulder. "For one thing, you're attracted to _me_—"

"Oh, am I really?"

"Of course you are," Flavio said confidently. "You just threw yourself at me and initiated our first ever kiss, remember? And considering how I am, in fact, a woman—"

"Yes, yes," I interrupted, signalling with my hand that he quicken his explanation.

"The second clue is that you are rather close to the lovely Anamaria—I saw the secretive, conspiratorial way the two of you looked at each other, sat close to one another, and murmured meaningless words of affection at supper tonight. So did Captain Jackia, actually," Flavio threw in for good measure, and I nodded in understanding; earlier in the evening, Ana and I _had_ sat a little further away from the rest of crew as she told me about the future visit to the local gypsy wise woman in Kingston that she had had dealings with in the past; her plan was to have some deranged Druid perform a little abortion for me, and those had been her specific words and not my own. From a distance, I supposed it might have looked like we were whispering sweet nothings into each others' ears.

"And the third clue?" I asked innocuously.

"Well, this was something Captain Jackia pointed out to me," Flavio confessed. "Just before he attempted to molest me—you know how amorous these pirate captains are—Anyway, Captain Jackia told me that you looked at my darling sister in a very… fascinated manner. His words, not mine," Flavio added hurriedly, and watched as my jaw dropped.

"And you _believed_ that?" I gasped.

"Everybody believes that," Flavio repeated once more. "Captain Jackia said it quite loudly—"

He was interrupted by yet another stinging slap. Before the poor man even had a chance to recover, I had stepped smartly into the cabin and slammed the door shut in his face. To make sure he couldn't attempt to follow, I turned the key in the lock, and scowled at the sudden darkness I had plunged myself into. I stumbled blindly through the cabin, eventually running into what I realised was the table. My hands groped across its surface, until I eventually felt my fingers brush against the cool metal of the covered lantern. A few more seconds of blind fumbling, and then a tiny flame sputtered to life.

I sighed, pushing back my hair, and looked forlornly about the cabin. I still couldn't quite believe that this would be my last ever night on this ship—assuming that Anamaria's information was accurate, that is, and I could not think of why she would lie. I really shouldn't be quite so… well, melancholic. I always knew, deep down, that Jack hadn't planned to keep me as permanent fixture on his ship. And recently, well… certain relationships of mine had soured—I could even go so far as to say that they'd simply fizzled out and died, and there was nothing left.

And to top off this sorrowful cocktail, this would also be the last night I could call myself an 'expectant mother.' I felt oddly regretful, but knew I had no one but myself to blame. This fact didn't make the future… well, separation any less distressing though.

And as if this bleak depression I was slowly sinking into wasn't sufficiently appalling, but I also had to deal with the fact that Jack was not only convinced that I was sexually attracted to Cate, he had to tell the rest of his crew as well—I mean, really, what _is_ it with men and lesbians? Even the really gay ones like Flavio were obsessed.

Speaking of which…

"Flavio, are you still there?"

"…No…" came the bright reply. "Not really…"

I marched back across the cabin, turned the key ferociously in its lock, and pulled the door violently open. "I'm still mad at you," I said to the guilty-looking drag queen. "But now that you're here, and seeing how you claim you've nothing better to do, you may as well help me pack."

Flavio looked up at me and flushed. "Are you inviting me into your bedroom?" he said interestedly. I gave him a withering look, and saw the hope die in his eyes.

"Come in," I said, stepping aside. "Oh, and I want that pornographic sketch of Jack, as compensation for your unfounded belief that I am attracted to your heinous sister."

"…Um, alright…" Flavio said nervously as the door swung shut behind him. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a rather thick wad of carefully folded sheets. "Which one?"

…The packing was unfortunately delayed that night.

**-x!x-**


	42. Holy Carrots

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-One:** Holy Carrots_

I had to throw Flavio out of the cabin; I kept the sketches, but I had to tell the transvestite to leave—he continually attempted to compromise my honour, and very routinely burst into song. It's very hard to pack all of your worldly belongings with a cabaret act in close proximity, as I'd discovered. Besides, his packing skills were useless; he kept picking up random objects and lamenting on my behalf.

"Look at this," he'd say, thrusting the chosen item under my nose. "Think of all the memories! Won't you miss this life?"

It wouldn't have been so depressing if Flavio hadn't kept handing me Pearl's belongings; I think he planned to have me burst into tears so that he could comfort me, and then seduce me. I, however, was not in the mood to be comforted, and just threw him out into the passageway instead. He begged, he sobbed, he pleaded, he wept, and then he saw Jack and promptly began to chase after the captain, all the while screaming, "Jackia!"

At least, that was what I heard happen. He could have just gotten bored and walked off. Anything is possible around here.

I found it hard to sleep that night; and when eventually I did, I dreamt of my first boyfriend, and had to curse Flavio and his monologue on first kisses for reminding me. And yet, I was glad that I dreamt of Steve, because it helped me realise that the reason I was so attached to Jack, besides the fact that he'd spawned the ever-adorable Pearl, was that he reminded me of my first love. Let me assure you, there is no one in the world quite like Jack, in the same way that I'd used to think that there was no one in the world quite like Steve; yet there were similarities between the two. Their sense of humour, for example. Their wit. The way that they talked and phrased things; even some of their values (or conspicuous lack of) were similar. Yet there was one distinct difference between them, and that was that Steve cared for me during our relationship. I'd been subconsciously thinking of Jack as another Steve; I'd somehow fooled myself into thinking the pirate saw me as more than just another woman.

It was a very depressing time for me, and when I woke up the next morning, I kept my eyes squeezed tightly shut in an attempt to block out my dreams and memories. Even so, a tear trickled out from under my lashes, and I attempted to wipe it away, but found my hand too heavy to lift. Nevertheless, I tried again.

And again. And again. But, try as I might, I could not move my arm.

Either of them; the left remained as still and immobile as the right.

It was only then that I realised that something was wrong.

I wriggled my fingers, and was relieved to feel them respond to my command. Perhaps my nerves were taking longer than usual to rouse. I attempted to lift my right arm once more, and that was when I felt it; a thick, strong material wrapped tightly about my wrist. Further experimentation led me to conclude that the same treatment had been given to my left.

My eyes snapped open, and I twisted my body to look up to where my hands had been tied to the bedposts—and with my own stockings! Somehow, this only made the involuntary bondage worse.

I sat up as best I could, relieved to find that I was still wearing my shift, although the covers had been pulled off of me and were messily piled at the bottom of the bed, and looked around the room, but there was no sign of my captor anywhere.

At that very moment, the door swung open, and in walked Father Dickenson, wearing a makeshift habit that looked like it had been cut out of a sailcloth and a garland of garlic decorating his wig. The crucifix in his right hand had been fashioned out of two carrots tied together with a piece of string, and under his left arm he carried a thick book which I naturally assumed was a Bible. The man had never looked more ridiculous, and yet I had never found him more intimidating. Being tied up to the bedpost can do that to a woman.

He paused in the doorway, studying me with the spiritual superiority that only a cleric could command. I smiled waveringly back at him.

"Father Dickenson!" I said in my most winsome tone. "What a pleasure it is to see you so early in the morning!"

He held up the carrot crucifix in response and savagely bared his teeth at me. My false smile effectively vanished, and I watched with mounting dread as he stepped further into the cabin, making sure that his makeshift crucifix was always at an arm's length, and skirted around the bed to place his Bible on the relatively clear desk, his eyes as unwavering as his carrots.

Familiar muffled squeaking, accompanied by carefree humming and the joyous sound of skipping feet, alerted me of another presence, and my eyes snapped back to the door to see Flavio happily making his way towards me, a wriggling bundle in his arms squealing in indignation.

"Pearl!" I cried out, horrified to see that the little girl was gagged. My eyes snapped back to Father Dickenson, who was watching my distress escalate with a calm and holy detachment. "What's going on?" I snapped at him.

He smirked at me in response. "I think we both know what's going on, do we not?"

"…Are you… _exorcising_ me?"

"_And_ your miniature accomplice," he said, looking oddly pleased with himself.

I frowned at this unprecedented turn of events. "Surely you don't think that _Pearl_— "

"Father, Father!" Flavio cried out, hastily depositing the child beside me and leaping back from the justifiably kicking creature. "She's trying to hurt me!"

Father Dickenson gasped in horror, crossing himself and muttering several prayers under his breath, whilst I looked over at Pearl, noting her bound hands. The child looked irritably up at me, her blue eyes flashing in uncharacteristic annoyance. We stared at each other for a moment as the cleric and the transvestite began to argue over whose responsibility it was to bring down the holy water, and then her blue eyes softened slightly, and she wriggled closer to rest her head on my stomach.

"Do _you_ know what's going on?" I asked the child, and she shook her dark head. I smiled down at her and then turned my withering gaze onto Flavio, who flinched and leapt behind Father Dickenson. The cleric glared at the transvestite, who visibly shrivelled away.

"Holy water," he told the blond in a most commanding tone. Flavio nodded several times in a most fearful and submissive manner before scurrying away to do his cleric's bidding. Satisfied that he had the cross dresser running, Father Dickenson turned back to us two bound females trussed up on the bed, surveying the both of us critically.

"After many, many, many trying years, I have found you at last," he finally spoke, his voice theatrically low. Pearl and I just glanced at one another, and then she nestled further into my stomach, burying her pretty face into the cheap material of my shift.

The moment, if it could be given such a name, was shattered by Father Dickenson's indiscreet cough. I tore my gaze away from the little angel up at the cleric in utter disdain. He was looking at me with an intensity so great that his eyes appeared both bulging and narrowed at once. Sighing, I rolled my own and rose to the bait.

"And now, after all these years of endless and restless pursuit, we at last meet," I replied tonelessly, hoping I didn't sound too bored.

"At last we do," Father Dickenson agreed, his voice considerably less sarcastic than my own. And then, so very predictably, he began to pace back and forth across the small cabin, hands clasped firmly behind his back whilst his garlic bobbed happily upon his bewigged head in such a way that I bit my lip several times to stop myself from laughing.

"I could have done so many things," he lamented regretfully. "I could have ended mindless crime, united all countries of the world under one nation and religion—Lord knows, I could even have become the world's first Protestant Pope!—if I had not spent my entire career pursuing you, which would have been a far easier task if you had not taken to possessing women!"

My ears perked up at this. "Women?" I asked, and he only nodded grimly. "_Just_ women?"

"Of course just women!" he exploded, and I flinched at the unexpected rise in volume. "You alone, out of all of the grand generals of hell, have power specifically over the minds, bodies, and actions of the weaker sex!"

Pearl released a "Hmph!" of indignation on hearing this label so casually thrown about, which Father Dickenson and I, being the mature and responsible adults that we were, both ignored.

"So you know who I am?" I asked of the pirate, and he nodded savagely. "Who am I, then?"

"The dreaded Satanachia himself!" Father Dickenson exclaimed dramatically, stumbling over his own feet in his excitement and dislodging the garlic on his wig slightly. "The despised Satanachia, the mighty General of Hell to which all females—all you scarlet succubae and menacing mermaids and scantily-clad shepherdesses—submit themselves!"

During this rather passionate monologue, Pearl has repositioned herself so that she was once more looking up into my eyes. Being unable to embrace her or kiss her, I settled for smiling affectionately down at her, and asked, "Pearl, is this Satanachia a real demon?"

She nodded vigorously, her eyes wide with sincerity.

"…Well then… Is what Father Dickenson says of him true?"

She attempted to lift her shoulders up in a shrug. Before I could question the rarely mute child further on Christian demonology, the door swung open to reveal a Flavio considerably more dishevelled than twenty minutes or so earlier lugging what appeared to be an extremely heavy bucket across the floor, panting rather exaggeratedly as he did so. Once he and the bucket of holy water were safely in the room, he then collapsed onto the floorboards in a gesture so theatrical that I was certain it was faked. Father Dickenson chose to ignore this needlessly histrionic swoon, stepping calmly over Flavio's supposedly unconscious form to close the door and submerge his vegetative crucifix in the holy water but what was most likely some hastily retrieved seawater. He crossed himself one more time before slowly pulling the makeshift cross out of the bucket and raising it to his lips in a kiss. I was uncertain of how to react to this rather unorthodox ritual, and so simply stared as he picked up the bucket and moved back to the desk, where he dropped his recently-blessed carrots in favour of his Bible. I was watching the priest's actions closely, but even so I did notice, out of the corner of my eye, Flavio stirring ever so slightly.

Father Dickenson was now at the bedside and standing imperiously over the two of us, and looking rather smug about it. I watched as he tucked the Bible securely under one arm before leaning down to dip his fingers into the blessed bucket once more, straightening suddenly and sprinkling my forehead with cold, sparkling droplets, before reaching down once more and repeating the same cleansing action on Pearl. Then, in one slow, deliberate movement clearly calculated to emphasise the significance of his action, he reached up to pluck his Bible from under his elbow, reaching up with his other hand gravely thumbing the pages apart. He looked at both of us once more in suspicion, noting our bindings with a satisfied nod, and then lowered his head to read aloud:

"Miss Amy Patworth, resident of the notorious Seventeen Drury Lane: A rosebud, caught in the full bloom of sweet youth, barely into her fifteenth year. Freshly picked from the usual stream of country girls that cater to such houses of ill repute, Miss Patworth claims to have arrived from Staffordshire a mere six months earlier. Is said to be fashionably pretty, with fair skin, as yet unmarked by pox nor any other unsavoury condition, flowing black hair, and dark eyes. Her mistress claims…" What Father Dickenson said next made me desperately wish that my hands were free so that I could cover Pearl's little ears; the various acts that Miss Amy Patworth of Drury Lane and her "deceptively small" mouth was said to be capable of were not meant for Pearl's young and almost innocent ears. Indeed, I myself was so shocked to hear Father Dickenson, of all people, describing the various sexual acts that Miss Patworth offered, that it took me a full minute to realise that the would-be exorcist was not, in fact, reading from a Bible.

Thankfully, the cleric in question was unfortunately interrupted by a loud and obnoxious crunch.

Father Dickenson paused, his face contorting. Then, slowly, he spun on his heel to look towards the desk where Flavio stood, happily munching away on one end of the carrot crucifix.

"Mister Woodcraft!" he gasped in shock.

Flavio's only response was to tilt his head, his pretty mouth still munching on the carrot. "_Sì, Padre?_" he asked mildly.

"How _dare_ you devour my crucifix!" he snapped in disapproval. "I have never seen such—such blatant declarations of satanic following!"

Flavio had the good grace to look embarrassed.

"I am not a follower of Satan," he began meekly. "I am merely a hungry pilgrim…"

"You—misguided… You…" he sputtered, clearly too appalled to find any words.

"Are _you_ hungry?" Flavio queried politely. Then, to Father Dickenson's watching horror and my growing amusement, he reached to another as of yet uneaten limb of the cross, snapped it off of the structure, and innocently offered it up to the parson.

Father Dickenson's response was to let out a howl of anguish, his hands scrambling at his head as he tried and failed to pluck a bulb of garlic from his garland. A slight trembling on my abdomen caused me to look curiously down at a silently giggling, still cruelly gagged Pearl.

A sudden crash made all four occupants of the room turn towards the door (or in Pearl's case, attempt to wriggle about and inadvertently nuzzle further into my stomach). Framed rather prettily in the doorway, her softly tousled hair falling about her slim shoulders and lovely face, stood Cate. There was a pause as her repulsively beautiful eyes swept across Flavio (whose immediate reaction was to guiltily shove his half-eaten carrots behind his back) and Father Dickenson (who, in his haste to appear more sensible, attempted to remove the garlic garland from his head and inadvertently pulled off his wig by accident) before finally landing on the bed. Something indecipherable flickered in her eyes when she'd looked into my own for a fleeting moment, but whatever it was soon transformed into the far more recognisable expression of exasperated fury. Slowly, deliberately, she turned the menacing expression onto her poor brother.

"_Flavio_," she began pointedly, "what is the purpose of _this_ exorcism?"

I blinked. "You mean this has happened before?" I asked, in my disbelief forgetting who I was addressing.

Her gaze, suddenly disinterested, fell upon my face. "Why, yes," she said in a surprisingly courteous manner. "Whenever Flavio encounters a man—or woman—who does not immediately follow him to bed, but doesn't quite reject him outright, he immediately jumps to the often erroneous conclusion that the man or woman in question is possessed by a sort of flirtatious teasing demon." Her carefully expressionless eyes then lowered to look at Pearl, and my stomach twisted as they visibly softened. "But why he'll want to exorcise little Blue is beyond me." And with this she turned back to her brother, whose violet eyes lowered in shame.

"Why the girl, Flavio?" Cate demanded, and her brother timidly muttered something under his breath.

"What was that?" she repeated.

"…She pilfered Bernard…"

Pear's stream of curiously colourful and surprisingly varied squeaks said otherwise. Cate sighed, rolled her eyes, and without any prior warning darted across the cabin to painfully grab her brother's ear. Flavio's reaction was to (unsurprisingly) burst into tears of heartbreaking hysteria, which the pirate entirely ignored.

"Go up on deck and make yourself useful, for once," she commanded as she rather painfully dragged the sobbing transvestite across the cabin. "You're lucky I was able to cover your watch last night; next time, I'll just let you get flogged." And with this loving comment, she wrenched open and literally threw poor Flavio out of the door. The frantic pattering of his booted feet soon faded as I heard him darting up the stairs.

The next victim of Cate's cabin purge was Father Dickenson. "And as for you, _Leonard_," she began as she turned to face him. The cleric hastily attempted to neatly replace his tangled hairpiece, with unsatisfactory results. "Need I really inform you that exorcism is a predominantly _Catholic_ practice?"

Father Dickenson's bland face visibly whitened.

"Yes, you should go and cleanse your involuntarily heretic soul through prayer and fasting," Cate answered just as the cleric opened his mouth to ask the question. The priest nodded and darted pass Cate without another moment of hesitation. The blonde nodded in satisfaction, a slight smug smirk pulling at her lips, and then she turned to Pearl with a face made all the more beautiful by the open warmth displayed there. She strolled gracefully towards us and seated herself on the edge of the bed, her hands reaching out to fidget with the rope around Pearl's little white wrists.

"Your father's looking for you, poppet," she told the girl in a voice tainted with uncharacteristic friendliness as the rope fell away in her hands. She then reached up behind the child's head, skilfully twitching the knot that so greatly impaired the girl's speech, and I flinched as I saw her place a fleeting kiss on the Sparrow's upturned forehead. Pearl smiled sweetly up at her saviour before adorably shaking her head in the same manner that a dog might shake his fur free of water. Then she swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, ready to leap off of the bed; hesitated, and then turned back to look curiously at me.

I gasped in surprise when the child unexpectedly pounced on me, her skinny little arms clinging tightly about my neck as she squeezed every molecule of oxygen out of my body.

"Pearl!" I breathlessly choked out when the child suddenly sat up on my torso to look into my eyes. Her only response to my exclamation was to lower her head and place a chaste kiss on my cheek before she tilted her face so that my own lips had access to her soft little cheek. I craned my neck slightly and kissed her sweet button nose instead.

"Forgive me?" I asked her softly, and she nodded.

"_Pearl_…" Cate said warningly. "Your father?"

Pearl reluctantly (much to my secret joy) drew away, clambering off of the mattress and toddling over to the door. She hesitated once more, turned back to briefly wave at the both of us, and was suddenly gone, leaving only Cate and I.

We stared at each other for a long moment, my head reeling with what I'd just witnessed; namely, Cate acting _nice_. This unusual thought crossed my mind before I realised, from the slight and mischievous smirk pulling at her lips, that the pirate in question was clearly enjoying my emphasised vulnerability.

"I take it this isn't the first time you've been tied down?"

The question, in spite of its obvious _double entendre_, seemed to have been asked more of politeness than anything else; yet there was a definite mocking undertone that I couldn't help pick up, which was why I gritted my teeth before replying.

"Could you please untie me?" I asked detachedly, refusing to rise to the bait. She smiled enigmatically down at me, shifting on the mattress so that she was able to reach up to the first binding, and my body automatically shuddered as I felt her hip press against my own. She'd deliberately chosen that position, I realised bitterly, because she knew it would make me uncomfortable; my continuous squirming as her nimble fingers worked on the stocking around my wrist only served to add to her victory.

"You're certainly taking your sweet time," I remarked as she moved a little further up the mattress to get a bitter grip on the makeshift bond.

"Well, I've had very limited experience untying women from bedposts," she shot back. "Untying men, now that's an entirely different matter."

My writhing body stiffened at her words, but I made no comment, my eyes watching Cate's face as she continued to work on the obstinate knot. Cate clearly sensed my icy hatred, as she paused, looked at me, and smirked ever slightly. Then, she slowly leant down, and whispered softly in my ear. "Particularly pirates; now, that's an entire area of bondage that I've had particularly recent practice in undoing."

My hands clenched of their own accord, and I set my jaw as I looked up into her triumphant eyes, silently telling myself not to react to her deliberately provocative words.

"How much difference can there be?" I said at last when I was certain I wouldn't snap and say something that would play me right into her hands. "I mean, the victims—sorry, _participants_ might vary greatly, but surely the basics remain the same? As far as the untying is concerned," I added to clarify matters and keep the conversation under some semblance of control.

She straightened slightly, the better to display her cruelly beautiful smile. "You'd think so," she allowed conversationally, "but in actuality, the two are startlingly different. The position of my body, for a start."

I knew I was treading on dangerous ground; I knew I shouldn't react to her words. And yet, some small, perverse, and wholly masochistic part of my psyche just couldn't help itself.

"How?" I said, against my better judgment, and immediately wished that I hadn't let that tiny little word slip out.

"Well…" she began, her hands dropping from my unwillingly elevated wrist to gesture at herself. "With a woman, I'm seated like this, with very little contact between our bodies. But with a man, however—" she stopped suddenly, and I thought for a split-second that she'd developed a heart.

But then she placed one hand on the other side of my head, to support herself, and swung her graceful leg over my hips so that she was sitting uncomfortably on my stomach with very little modesty, causing me to widen my eyes, for obvious reasons. I could only stare up at her as she casually tucked a stray strand of gold behind her ear, looking for all the world as if using me as her chair was the most natural thing in the world, and wondered why she was doing so as she leant forwards and slightly to the right to continue with her untying. It was only after a few seconds or so of irritated tugging at the stocking that she looked down at me, a supercilious smile playing on her lips.

"But with a man, I tend to do this instead," she said, her voice low and mocking in its cruelty.

"You don't necessarily have to _straddle_ a man in order to untie him," I pointed out, unwittingly walking straight into the subtle web that she'd spun for me.

Her arrogant, infuriatingly condescending smile widened just the slightest fraction, and one elegant white hand abandoned the obstinate knot altogether, choosing to rest on the right side of my head as she lowered her face to mine. Her silky hair fell bout us in a shimmering curtain, and I fought the urge to cough as I inadvertently inhaled a few wayward strands.

"Oh, I know that," she confessed, her lips inches from my own; her warm, pleasant-smelling breathing tickling my lower lip in partnership with her hair. The entire situation seemed ironically intimate, and I fought down the urge to turn away. "But Jack does so like it when I'm on top, and I've never been one to disappoint…"

My blood immediately flared at the strategic mention of Jack's name, and I bit down on my lower lip so hard I began to taste blood, but already, I could see it; Cate straddling Jack instead of me, her lips lowered to his own like hers was to mine. Cate had planned for me to imagine the two of them together, and I had. Words cannot begin to describe the hatred I felt towards her at that moment; it was bad enough that she had Jack, but she didn't have to torture me as well.

"Well," I said at last, my voice raspy with suppressed emotion, "considering how I'm a woman…" and I violently twisted my hip in an attempt to dislodge her, feeling a mute satisfaction on hearing her shriek in surprised indignation.

The blonde soon recomposed herself, and slipped off of my waist without another word, turning back to the tightly-knotted stocking. After another minute or so of incessant tugging and a few choice curses from the pirate, I finally felt the material loosening; twenty seconds later, and I was able to pull my hand free of the bedpost without any difficulty.

"How is the child?" she enquired suddenly as she leant over to attack its twin. "As far as Jack's concerned, Blue's the only offspring that he has to provide for."

I looked up at her face, noting her furrowed brow. "Are you calling me a liar?"

"Oh, heavens no," she assured me, pulling on the stocking a little too violently and causing me to gasp in pain. "But I can see a few signs in your body that confirm your pending motherhood."

My stomach twitched at this, but I fought down my initial fear to ask her, "Surely I can't be showing already?"

"You're not," Cate assured me, tilting her head as she assessed the stocking that defiantly refused to release me. "That's just a very thin shift you're wearing."

I felt my cheeks flush at this, and turned away slightly. "And how would you know what the signs are?" I challenged. "You've never been a mother."

"Shows how much you know," she offhandedly tossed my way, and I raised my head to look at her silently absorbed eyes, still fixed on my tied wrist. Her face looked so young… not so much older than I was… My eyes drifted down, noting how slender and firm she still was, and I found myself doubting her enigmatic claim.

"You had children?" I tentatively asked.

Cate was silent for a moment, still tugging at the stocking. "Three," she said at last, and there was something in her level voice—a sort of suppressed quality, as though she was fighting down an unwanted emotion, that made me believe that she had borne three children, even if she certainly didn't look it.

"Where are they now?" I said, curious but not actually wishing to pry. She refused to answer, still tugging on the stocking; I saw her jaw clench in annoyance, and then, with one final pull, the stocking fell apart in her hands, and I was at long last free.

"There," she said quietly, sounding oddly pleased with herself, and threw the white material onto my stomach before hastily slipping off of the bed and turning away before I could ask any more questions on her offspring.

I sat up, rubbing my sore wrists whilst silently replaying her brief but poignantly human moment. Don't get me wrong, I still hated her with ever fibre of my being; she just seemed less a disgustingly beautiful creature from hell and more like a real woman. Women, I thought smugly, were people; they had strengths and weaknesses, and could be defeated. I was pleased to discover that she wasn't entirely indomitable; she just had more obvious qualities than I did, that's all.

"The mulatto's looking for you," she said suddenly. "Oh, and by the way, Cate called suddenly over her shoulder, and I snapped my head up to look at her. "Anna… Marie? Oh, and Sierra," she added, spinning on her heel and leaning against the doorframe as she crossed her arms. "Something vaguely resembling gratitude would be appreciated."

I could only stare at her, and tried not to laugh in disbelief. Gratitude? When she'd used my moment of intense vulnerability to toy with my jealousy and remind me of what I no longer had? The very thought was utterly ridiculous.

Nevertheless, I straightened my shoulders and met her eyes. "Thank you," I said, to my credit sounding only vaguely sarcastic.

Cate's only response was to turn and leave the cabin completely, and I bit my lip to stop myself from informing her that decorum clearly states she respond with a "You're welcome."

**-x!x-**

**AN:** Fear not, more obvious plot progression will occur next chapter; it's just that I've been meaning to have Sierra "exorcised" for quite a while now…


	43. Pearl’s Acting Debut

**AN:** You know the drill; numerous apologies on this belated update, and blessings upon yourselves, your friends, and your relatives.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Two:** Pearl's Acting Debut_

"…And much as I have missed you, honey, I'm afraid I'll have to take my leave of you now," I murmured to Pearl even as I clutched her tightly to my chest, resting my cheek atop her silky head. Pearl's only response was to cling even tighter onto me, and I felt her shake her head against my chin.

"_No_," she said sulkily. "_My_ Si-Si; mine! _Not_ Anamaria's." And I felt her head move as she supposedly craned her little white neck the better to glare at the thieving Anamaria standing behind me.

"Certainly takes after her da', that one," Anamaria commented cryptically. Pearl's only response was to bury her head into my shoulder and plead with me not to leave her all alone in the world.

"Don't dramatise your short little life," I admonished playfully, carefully settling her down onto the deck; however, because of her insistent grasp about my neck, I had to kneel down in order to accomplish this supposedly straightforward task, so that when I had eventually pulled away, I was level with her scowling face and sulking blue eyes; oh God, those eyes… I'd forgotten just how potent they could be; and as for her pout…

"I don't _need_ to dramatise my short little life," she informed me, her sweet voice rendered all the more irresistible by the obvious underlying tone of false hurt. "I _began_ my short little life as the bastard daughter of a pirate and a prostitute, raped before I was eight" I flinched at the way she'd said this so very matter-of-factly "and kidnapped by my Papa, only to be abandoned in a strange town with a strange man Papa knows. And I was raised in a common brothel as well," she added for good measure, watching with mute satisfaction as my eyes widened.

"What do you mean, abandoned?" I asked of her, and she shrugged.

"Papa's leaving me with a Mr. Forrester, who actually lives in Port Royal, but is in Kingston on business," she said sweetly. "That's why he was in Port Royal a few months ago, he wanted to see his friend, only he inadvertently rescued a drowning governor's daughter and was whisked away by a eunuch of a blacksmith on a grand adventure that—"

"Yes yes, Pearl," I interrupted, not in the mood to hear yet more of Jack's fantastic tales, least of all from this most biased of sources.

"He killed a bad man called Barbossa, he did," Pearl said candidly, nodding her head to further accentuate her point. "And Barbossa had atrocious taste in hats."

"…Alright…" I said uncertainly, casting a glance at Anamaria, who was looking thoroughly bored and impatient. I smiled embarrassedly at her over my shoulder, but she merely scowled back, her dark eyes commanding me in no uncertain terms to hasten my temporary farewell; at least, I'd hoped it was temporary…

"Listen; Pearl," I said, grasping her thin shoulders tightly, my voice begging her to understand, "I wish I could bring you with me, I really wish I could—don't scowl at me like that, you know I do. But this—I—" Words failed me at this point; how could I possibly tell this child, precocious as she was, that I was setting off to… to… How could I tell her that I was carrying her half-sibling—hell, possibly a miniature Pearl—and was now planning to… I couldn't even think about it, much less say it aloud.

"I'll be back soon," I finished lamely, and saw her frown deepen. "Oh, stop it…"

Pearl flung her arms about my neck once more, and I coughed, unable to inhale.

"**_No!_**" she yelped again. "_My_ Si-Si!"

And we continued to travel in these particular circles for quite some time, until Anamaria yanked the clingy child off of me with a callous finality.

"No!" she squeaked as she was uncompromisingly dropped several feet away from me. Anamaria ignored her protests; as I could plainly see, the pirate was pout-proof.

"C'mon," she said, deliberately using her body as a barrier between me and the prettily pouting Pearl.

"I'll only be gone a couple of hours!" I called over Anamaria's shoulder as she prodded me forwards. "Why don't you bounce over to Jack and question him in an annoying yet adorable manner until I get back?"

"But—But that doesn't change the fact that Anamaria's stealing my Si-Si," she whined plaintively.

"We'll buy you something pretty," I assured the girl, and was rewarded with a bright smile.

"Pearl likes pretty things," she shouted at me as I unsteadily clambered over the railing and onto the rope ladder awaiting me. "As long as they're not prettier than Pearl is, of course!"

I laughed, blew the child a kiss, and began my descent, willing myself not to look down until I felt the edge of the boat beneath my foot.

"Pearl is going to try and follow us," I said to Anamaria in a low tone as I sat unsteadily down.

"I know that," she replied, settling herself at the other end and grasping the oars. "But considering how she's not strong enough to row, the only way she'll get off of the ship is if she asked someone to escort her; and the only man willing to escort her—"

"Isn't too fond of me at the moment," I completed for her.

"It's yer own fault; you shouldn't have let that Frenchie seduce you with wild talks of exotic coconuts now, should you?"

I smiled slightly at this; I absolutely adored the woman's dry, subtle deadpan.

"It was a very good coconut though," I confided conspiratorially. "Once he actually found me one that is; I don't regret the coconut at all. It's really unfair, how you two insist on blaming the coconuts."

"Yes, but Jack also holds you responsible."

My smiled turned into a frown.

"That was uncalled for, Ana," I said as she rowed us steadily to shore. "Besides, Jack was being an utter prick; look me in the eye and tell me you wouldn't have done the same thing if you were in my position."

"If I was in your position," she replied grimly, "I wouldn't be taking sole responsibility for my actions; I'll be dividing my time 'tween blaming Sparrow, John-Francis, and those blasted coconuts."

"Yes, because coconuts are devious fruits that are more than capable of bending us human beings to their adulterating wills; 'It wasn't me, the coconut had bewitched me.' Honestly, Ana, grow up."

Anamaria's smooth golden brow creased as she frowned at me. "Learn how to take a compliment, lass."

I was more than a little taken aback by this.

"…Oh," I said at last. "Yes, um… thank you, I suppose."

Anamaria cast me one last enigmatic look before turning her head to see how much further we had until we reached the beach, and we continued the rest of the voyage in silence.

"Help me with this, will you?" were the pirate's first words when she felt her oars brushing the sandy bottom of the water. I watched as she reach down to pull off her boot and followed suit, shamelessly rolling up my skirt so I could remove my stockings, and smiled secretly as I instantly recalled the discussion of ankle morality the last time I dared embark on such a scandalous activity. Anamaria leapt out of the longboat first, rocking it ever so slightly, and patiently began to pull it towards the shore whilst I continued to struggle with my stockings.

"Don't take this the wrong way, mate," she said, a slight strain on her voice thanks to her exertions with the boat, "but it certainly wouldn't 'urt if you'd lost a few pounds."

I froze at her words and turned to look at her in astonishment.

"_Ana!_" I exclaimed.

"What?"

"It certainly wouldn't hurt _you_ any to conduct yourself with a tad more tact."

She shrugged, offering a hand as I attempted to stand in the boat and watching as I rolled up my skirts.

"Tact is just decorum's way of avoiding the truth," she sniffed, her hands encircling my waist as I placed my own palms on her shoulders. "It's the polite word for 'lie.'"

"Exactly," I said, frowning as I my skirts fell pass my thighs and into the water. "I love tact almost as much as you despise coconuts."

* * *

After our joint push of the boat to the beach and our careful climbing onto the actual port of Kingston, during which we were viewed with great suspicion by several red-clad soldiers, came forty-five minutes or so of pointless conversation as we strolled down one of Kingston's bustling streets. I was longing to ask her more about this mysterious abortionist who Anamaria had referred to only as "a deranged Druid" and how she came to make the acquaintance of such a creature, and yet part of me was content to further discuss the evils of coconuts and why Jack was a pathetic excuse for a human being (she had a list of reasons to back up this mild claim) and keep all thoughts of foetuses at bay.

We were just about to turn down into a shady and foreboding-looking alleyway when something small and fast in Jack's coat and hat came streaking pass, ruffling my skirts and causing Anamaria to mutter oaths that certainly explained how the phrase 'swear like a sailor' came into being.

"Pearl!" I exclaimed, immediately giving chase lest she lose herself in the vast settlement of Kingston Town. The child was swift, Anamaria swifter still, and within moments the little Sparrow was being forcibly restrained by the mulatto as I approached them. I wrapped my arms about her struggling shoulders, lifted her out of Anamaria's grip, and pinched her little nose with my free hand in an attempt to stop her from struggling. She was so surprised to have me pinch her nose that she ceased her thrashing all together, and I took the opportunity to glare at her.

"What," I began slowly, "are you doing off the ship, and dressed like that?"

Pearl swallowed, pulled her father's hat down further so that the rim covered her blue eyes completely, and proceeded to bury her face in my shoulder with squeak that sounded like "Hide me!"

"We've company," Anamaria noted, nodding at some point beyond my shoulder. I glanced sceptically down at Pearl before slowly turning with a mounting dread, only to sigh in relief as I saw an extremely irate Jack Sparrow pushing his way through the crowds, an almost conservatively-dressed Flavio and—of all people!—Jean-François in tow.

"Good morning, ladies," Jack uttered almost cheerfully, hand automatically reaching up to tip his hat, only to fall sheepishly to his side when he remembered that that particular item was not upon his head. "Wonderful weather we're having, isn't it?"

"_Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles,_" Jean said, removing his own hat and inclining his head in a small bow.

"_Sedano!_" was what the less conventional and more expressive Flavio had to say. "You look positively ravishing—bosom aside, of course," he added with a shudder that made me narrow my eyes. He beamed obnoxiously at us, suddenly noticed Anamaria was standing there, and added swiftly, "My apologies, sir, I did not see you. _Buon giorno signor_, and might I add that you may wish to reconsider that hair; it makes you look rather effeminate."

I snuck a glance at Anamaria, noting out of the corner of my eye that Jack was doing the same thing, and saw the undisguised offence lacing her femininely pretty features. Before anyone could say a word, she'd darted swiftly forwards—there was blur of movement, a disgusting _thwack_ sound of flesh colliding with flesh, and Flavio's yelp of pain. When she'd stepped back, I saw with a flash of sudden sympathy that Flavio was doubled over in pain, clutching his stomach and cursing fluently in a low voice that was decidedly… well, _masculine_, and assumed that she'd punched him in the abdomen.

It wasn't until Jack, who was in a better position to have witnessed the entire attack, said in a terrified whisper, "Anamaria… _Why_ the balls?" did I realise what had actually passed.

"Oh, Ana!" I castigated, feeling Pearl shudder in sympathy in my arms. "That was completely uncalled for."

She merely shrugged. "Teach him not to call me a man," was all she said on the matter, which, judging by the twin expressions on Jack and Jean's faces, wasn't reason enough to attack such a delicate area.

"How was _I_ meant to know that she was a woman?" Flavio wheezed out, his voice, suddenly low and guttural, sending shivers up my spine despite myself. "She doesn't have any vile breasts."

The use of the adjective 'vile' might have been interpreted as a compliment, though Anamaria surged forward nonetheless, and had to be forcibly restrained by Jack, whilst Flavio released an "Eep!" of fear and sought protection behind Jean-François' wonderfully sculpted frame. The Frenchman murmured something to poor Flavio which I didn't hear as Jack was loudly telling Anamaria to restrain herself. The woman eventually calmed, stepping back without another word, but Flavio very understandably refused to relinquish his human fortress.

Jack smiled to himself, pleased he was able to momentarily tame the beast, before turning towards me, and I felt my pulse quicken in spite of myself.

"Ah, there's my favourite girl," he said, stepping closer. "Hello to you too, Pearl."

"…I'm not Pearl," the child said sulkily. "I'm Captain Jack Sparrow."

Jack and I both looked at one another, him with amusement, I with uncertainty; what did he mean, calling me his "favourite girl?"

"Oh, are you now?" Jack asked his daughter.

"Aye," she affirmed. "With a yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum."

I had to smile at her adorability.

"Prove it," Jack commanded.

Pearl was silent for a moment.

"I'm an alcoholic," she said at last. "I'm obsessed with rum, I slur my words, I have an unhealthy hat fetish, and I can't walk pass a brothel without going into it—and speaking of walking, if you put me down right now, I will walk like a drunken woman."

I looked at Jack, who was frowning.

"It's always a joy to hear her voice her true thoughts, rather than hear her spew out what she's been taught to think," he quipped, indicating with his hand that I set her down on the cobbled street, which I did.

"I believe," he began, stepping forward and reaching out for his hat, "that this is mine," and he effortlessly flipped the tricorn hat off of his daughter's head and onto his own before crouching down so that their faces were level. "And this," he added, tugging at his coat, which Pearl clearly would rather not give up. Moved by his plight, I bent down and helped him with this infuriating task, and soon all that was left was Pearl standing in her dark blue dress.

Jack tilted his head as he straightened, frowning down at her as he shrugged the faded material on.

"And that's also mine," he added with a gesture as he regarded the stripped and sulky Pearl standing before him. "But you're more than welcome to keep it."

Pearl squeaked indignantly, and I smiled fondly at the two of them.

"Sierra, darling," Jack said suddenly, and I was surprised, to say the least, at having him address me directly of his own free will. "Could I have a word? Over there," he said with a clinking jerk of his beaded head towards the alley.

I looked suspiciously at him, wondering what he could possibly want from me but acquiesced.

"You three," Jack said to the remaining adults, "I want you to stay exactly where you are—"

"No worries there," Flavio gasped, now falling to the floor as he shamelessly clutched at his testicles, which was actually rather amusing.

"—and ensure the little scamp doesn't scarper off to steal another man's clothing," Jack continued as though he hadn't heard Flavio's contribution. "And if, when I return, I note any more damage to male genitalia, Anamaria…" he trailed off warningly.

"Can't make any promises, sir. As you should well know."

Jack winced at the memory her words evoked. "Quite right," he said with a pained expression, slinging his arm about my shoulder as I stepped closer to him and confidently steering me into the dark and cramped passageway. I tried not to react to the feel of his arm around me, the subtle scent of salt rising from his skin, or how intimate the feel of his shoulder against my cheek was as he pulled me closer; I was by now certain that the lovely Cate was more than able to attend to all of his needs.

After we'd gotten to a point in the long passage where the sound of Flavio's laboured breathing had faded somewhat and the main street had disappeared from view, he pushed me roughly against one of the walls, and I felt a sudden bolt of fear course through me at this unexpected and uncharacteristic violence.

"What—" I began, but was interrupted as he brought his lips onto mine with a consuming passion that made me very glad I had the support of the solid brick wall. My hands snaked about his neck of their own accord before Cate's angelic face flashed before me, and I finally summoned the willpower required to push him away.

"Sierra…" he pleaded, his arms snaking about my waist and pulling me up against him.

"Why?" I snapped. "Get off me!"

"Sierra, sweetheart, please…" he murmured in a low voice, reaching up to push a strand of hair away from my face.

I turned away from his dark eyes, unnerved at the self-pity I found there.

"If you don't plan on talking to me, I'd rather get back to Pearl and Anamaria." I forced myself to meet his gaze once more. "Well, Jack? Do you have anything to say?"

Jack hesitated. "All right, I confess," he said after a beat. "I need your help."

"By which you mean you need a woman," I interpreted.

"It's not like that," he assured me. "I—"

"Go to Cate," I snapped at him. "That's who you've chosen." And I tried to step away, but he held me tightly to him.

"That's the problem," he confessed. "I _can't_ go to Cate."

I ceased my futile struggling, looking up at him in wonder.

"What do you mean, you can't go to Cate?"

Jack hesitated once more, looked around to ensure that our alley truly was abandoned, and wordlessly raised his left hand. "Can you spot something wrong with this hand?" he hissed at me. I stared at the tanned skin, his long, elegant fingers, his subtle calluses, and felt myself shudder at the memories of that hand on my body. Judging by Jack's brief smirk, he felt it too.

"Nope," I said, "there's absolutely nothing wrong with that hand. As far as hands go, that hand is…"

"Incredibly skilled and talented, I know," Jack filled in, waggling his fingers impatiently. "But let's not be haunted by wonderful memories of the past—it's much more fun to create

new ones altogether—"

"What's wrong with your hand?" I interrupted.

"Can't you _see_?" he hissed, waving the appendage back and forth under my nose. "Look at the fingers, girl! Look carefully, now."

I did as I was told, and widened my eyes as I spotted what was causing him such distress: there, seated proudly on his ring finger, was a single golden band. Now, I'd never actually bothered to memorise each and every ring that he possessed, but I noticed enough to realise the undecorated circlet thrust before me was too plain and simple a ring to be in keeping with his personal tastes.

"Good God, Jack," I breathed. "You're not…?"

"I'm afraid it's true," he affirmed grimly. "Certain circumstances entirely beyond my control has led me to be unhappily wed."

"Well, I suppose congratulations are in order," I said, still staring at the wedding ring in shock; I didn't need to ask who the lucky bride was.

"Not if I have a say in it," he uttered grimly. "As I was saying, I now find myself saddled with a loving and beautiful wife—"

"No need to rub salt into the wound," I commented bitterly, but he held up the hand on which the wedding band was so carelessly displayed.

"Let me finish: I now find myself burdened with a wife, and need to participate in a spot of harmless adultery post-haste so that I might persuade her to leave." He looked earnestly into my eyes, and send tenderly, "Sierra, will you do me the honour of being my whore?"

I, personally, don't think that the slap I dealt him was powerful enough.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** I told you there'll be plot developments, did I not?


	44. The Wise Woman’s Guard

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Three:** The Wise Woman's Guard_

"It was an accident," Jack said, turning back towards me after he'd swiftly recovered from my slap. I had the decency to wait until he was facing me completely before striking him once more.

"An accident?" I repeated, pushing him away and decidedly storming back down the alley, hearing the pattering of his feet following close behind. "Oh, so that would explain why I wasn't invited to the wedding, then."

"That and Cate feels a bit intimidated by your unearthly beauty, yes."

I halted my strides and turned back to glare at him. "Unearthly beauty?" I repeated, and Jack nodded vigorously.

"Oh yes, very unearthly, almost… heavenly, if you will."

I smiled falsely at this. "Nice try Jack, but I'm still not sleeping with you."

"Oh, why not?" Jack persisted, grabbing my shoulder and forcing me to face him. "You've done it before—"

"Why yes Jack, you're absolutely right; what a perfectly legitimate reason for me to jump back into bed with you simply because you've asked me to."

Jack flashed a golden grin at this point. "If I hadn't known how utterly irresistible I am, I would have thought that you were being sarcastic."

"Find someone else to break up your happy union!" I snapped, and tried to wrench my arm out of his grip. "Or better, work it out between yourselves; there's very probably been a whole misunderstanding and she might not want to be married to you either."

"You're right there," Jack told me, grabbing onto my elbow. "That she doesn't want to be married to me, I mean—or so she claims."

I turned to face him once more, an eyebrow raised in scepticism. "So what's the problem?" I asked. "If neither of you want to be married, then…?"

"It's that bloody priest Dickenson!" Jack admitted. "Ever since he'd discovered that Cate's carrying my child, he's been on my back—and I mean that literally—and has successfully forged an unholy union between the two of us in the unholy hours of this morning. Using violent means, I might add," he said as an afterthought as I stared at him in shock. He frowned at my expression, tilting his head as he studied my features. "What?"

"Cate… Cate's carrying your _child_?" I said at last, and Jack shrugged.

"That's what Dickenson believes, and hence the impromptu wedding at gunpoint."

"Are you sure?" I spoke sharply, ignoring his last comment. "I mean, are you _absolutely_ sure that she's… that she's a child carrier?"

"Yes, that is the rumour," Jack clarified, watching my face keenly. Feeling my legs grow suddenly unsteady, I found myself clinging tightly to the lapels of his coat, and saw him smirk a little at my suddenly needy behaviour, even as he wrapped his free arm about my shoulders and pull me into him.

"That…" he said softly into my hair, "or it's you."

I felt my blood freeze at this seemingly casual comment, whilst Jack calmly lowered his head to kiss my cheek, apparently unaware of the effect his words had on me, before whispering into my ear, "But it can't possibly be you, otherwise everything you've told me that day you promised that you were barren would all be a lie, wouldn't it?"

So; Jack had known all along. And he'd clearly meant to drag me away from the others so that we could discuss the matter. I was so unnerved by his apparent omniscience that I didn't make a move to stop him from pushing me up against the wall once more, tilting my head back and staring up into the powder blue sky in disbelief as he nuzzled my neck.

"How can… How can you be so sure that I was lying?" I asked dizzily. Jack decidedly took a while to respond, choosing instead to playfully nip my neck.

"Firstly, you're a terrible liar, sweetheart; I knew by the look in your eyes that day that you weren't being completely truthful. Secondly, Anamaria is also a terrible liar; being a part of my crew, she has to inform me of any… unofficial ventures to land, and my interrogation skills are considerably unrivalled. Thirdly, and most tellingly of all…" His voice had dropped to a husky whisper here, and I felt my eyes slip closed in spite of myself. My skin suddenly felt cold when he'd abruptly pulled away, and I reluctantly allowed my eyelids to flicker open to see him smirking mischievously down at me.

"And thirdly, you've put on a little weight," he completed, his eyes silently laughing as my own widened.

"Bastard," I scowled, not at all enjoying his little joke. Nevertheless, I sighed in something vaguely resembling contentment as his lips descended on my skin once more; I hadn't realised until now how much I had missed the contact. And, judging from the way his kisses seemed to linger for longer than I remembered from before, the feeling was at some level mutual.

"But… But what about your wife?"

"Who?" Jack murmured, almost dreamily. "Oh; Cate! Oh, she's not important at all."

"But… isn't she your wife?"

"…Besides that rather trifling detail," he amended slightly, his head jerking up to look into my eyes in confusion. "But why would that matter?" he asked. "It's not as though I'll ever marry _you_."

I slapped him once more, partly because of what he said, partly because watching his head snap to the side in minor pain was fast becoming a sadistic hobby of mine.

"But that's not to say I don't like you," he belatedly added, leaning down to kiss me once more.

"You utter bastard," I hissed, turning away.

"I didn't _voluntarily_ marry her," Jack desperately tried.

"Exactly!" I exclaimed, and saw with satisfaction that he flinched. "If the wedding service wasn't voluntary, then the entire marriage in question is void, is it not?"

"…Yes…" Jack reluctantly agreed. "However, the marriage in question was, ah… consummated."

"Well, that's your own fault, isn't it?"

"Not really, no," Jack corrected sullenly. "You see, Cate and I were in the middle of… consummating, if you will, when Dickenson came storming into my cabin, snatched up my sword, and demanded that the two of us marry before allowing us to continue."

"…Oh," I said stupidly. "So… So it really _wasn't_ voluntary, then?"

Jack merely snorted. "Sierra, do you honestly believe I'm the sort of man who would voluntarily marry a woman using my real name?"

"Actually," I confessed, feeling vaguely guilty for slapping him now, "I don't think you'll be the type who'll marry at all."

Jack beamed widely at this before his expression turned somewhat serious. "And now, I believe you owe me at least three apologies."

"I'm so very sorry for slapping you," I obediently muttered.

Jack's forehead furrowed. "That's it?" he asked, seeming rather disappointed. "I'm certain I deserve far more than that for such lacking faith."

I rolled my eyes. "I suppose I'll have to kiss you better," I sighed.

"Do you honestly think my forgiveness can be bought for so cheap a price?"

"Sleep with you?"

"At least three times," Jack allowed, and I smiled.

"Jack?" I asked mildly. "I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to answer it honestly—or as close to honestly as you're able, which considering the question, really shouldn't be too difficult."

"I swear on pain of death that I'll endeavour to do my very best," Jack answered solemnly. "What is this grave enquiry of yours?"

"When you dragged down this lane and told me you were married and needed to get out of it… Was that really just an elaborate ploy to get me back into bed?"

Jack closed his dark eyes and sighed dramatically. "You know me far too well," he admitted. "Although I have in all actuality been made an unhappy husband by a sword-wielding cleric, who I need to persuade to annul this… menace to society."

"Why don't you just throw him off of the ship and forget this entire incident has ever happened?" I questioned, curious as to why Jack was so set on keeping the ever interfering Father Dickenson aboard his vessel.

"_Because_," Jack stressed, "nowhere does it say in the Code that a captain is allowed to discharge an otherwise satisfactory crewmember for his religious fervour or matchmaking attempts."

"But didn't he threaten you with a sword?" I asked.

"The Code's quite obscure on death threats," Jack admitted, and I rolled my eyes, silently wondering why Jack insisted on keeping to such a ridiculous set of rules when he clearly cared not for the law.

"Stop it, Jack," I complained when he tried to kiss me once more. "God, if you're really going to miss me that much, why insist on leaving me here? Why not keep me on your ship?"

I saw Jack's eyebrow arch quizzically. "Tell me true, Sierra," he said in turn, "do you really _like_ being on my ship? I didn't think so," he added as I averted my eyes.

"But Jack…" I pleaded, clutching to his coat and thinking of when my father had left me to fend for myself. "Jack, I… How am I going to take care of myself? I _can't_ take care of myself; I never could. I'm not meant for independence." I paused, waiting for him to say something to the contrary. When all I was met with was silence, I desperately floundered on, "If I could take care of myself… Or if… _someone_ was willing to take care of me, then I wouldn't even be on my way to rid myself of my—_our_ child."

The captain was silent for a moment, and then his reaction to my whispered confession was completely unprecedented; he threw back his head and laughed aloud whilst I simply stared at him in disbelief.

"And you say you can't take care of yourself!" he said gleefully. "If you'd said that to any other man, he would have swept you into his arms—or propose to you on the spot. Hell, I nearly did."

"I wasn't trying to manipulate you," I informed him, feeling rather hurt that he'd thrown my heartfelt honesty back into my face.

"Perhaps not," Jack allowed, and I noticed how suddenly there was a gap between our bodies, "but you did so in any case."

Looking into his amused and almost admiring eyes, I decided that perhaps leaving him wouldn't be so terrible a fate as I imagined; did he really think so little of me that he thought I would honestly stoop to bargaining with my own baby's life?

"I really should get back to Anamaria," I diverted. "You can take Pearl and Flavio and Jean back to—"

"Actually," Jack interjected, "your dear Jean-François and Flavio were looking for you; apparently there is something of vital importance they wish to discuss with you, though what I've not the faintest idea."

"Well, surely it can wait—"

"Considering how these men both followed you to shore in separate boats—Flavio was the one that rowed Pearl over, and Jean decided to share my own—I somehow doubt it."

"But I can't have them with me when I—Come _on_, Jack!" I reasoned. "Why don't I bring Pearl along as well?"

"Could you?" Jack begged. "It's just I've got business of my own to attend to, and she'll just get in the way."

"Well, I can't possibly—"

"Let that happen?" Jack completed. "I knew you'd understand." And he strode away before I had the chance to correct him.

"Oh no you don't, Jack Sparrow!" I yelped, chasing after him.

Jack had then broke out into a run, and when I'd reached them Pearl leapt into my arms with a cry of, "I _knew_ you loved me really!" and there was no sign of the maddening pirate in sight. I immediately set the child down, told Jean and the still injured Flavio to watch her, grabbed Anamaria's arm, dragged _her_ into the alley, and demanded whether the abortionist was in any way child-friendly.

"Have you any idea how ridiculous that question is?" she demanded. "Don't worry, if my memory of Erin Branagh is correct, she'll have at least _one_ disillusioned gypsy accompanying her, moaning about her overachieving voodoo sister, so we'll just leave the child with her."

"…Alright," I agreed. "That sounds safe and not at all mentally disturbing or scarring. And the men?"

"Oh, we'll leave the child in charge of them," Anamaria dismissed decidedly.

"And—Pearl will never know?"

"Branagh is a midwife of extreme discretion," Anamaria assured me. "If you don't count the politically-incorrect animal sacrifices and insistence to dance naked around every bonfire on Guy Fawkes' Night, that is."

"Is today the fifth of November?" I asked.

"I've reason to believe we're in late August," she corrected me. "No naked dancing around bonfires, I promise."

We called the remaining three to join us in the alleyway, which apparently we had to go through anyway; Pearl appeared first, grabbing my hand and clinging tightly to it with her own, and after a minute or two came Jean loudly telling Flavio that there was nothing wrong with him and he could walk of his own accord as he half-supported, half-carried the sobbing transvestite. Anamaria chose to ignore Flavio's pain, telling me instead to keep a tight grip on Pearl, for her own safety, but refused to tell me what it was that posed such a threat to the child.

The long alley led into another street, less crowded than the last, but with a sort of pulsing vibrancy of its own nevertheless. The people who walked this street were decidedly dirtier than the last, less respectable than the other pedestrians I had seen. As I followed Ana, I discovered that I could easily pick out one particular group of people that were clearly part of Kingston's underworld; every now and then, my eyes would fall on a prostitute. Don't ask me how I was able to distinguish them from the other women that roamed the street; some of them were fashionably dressed, and had a boldness to their stride that a modest woman of the time certainly wouldn't have possessed, yet others wore drab and conservative clothing that seemed to have the sole purpose of ensuring the wearer blended into the buildings she passed, with a meek and shuffling walk to accompany their shyness. But I just _knew_ which one was which regardless, and I found that rather disconcerting. The only reason I could think of for this ability was the fact that I myself was once—and might be yet again—a whore. My grip on Pearl's hand tightened of its own accord, and I diverted my gaze in an attempt to stop myself from distinguishing between the women that we passed.

And then my eyes fell on something so disturbing that I stopped in my tracks.

There, curled up against the wall, sobbing quietly to himself, was a filthy little boy about Pearl's age—perhaps younger, but I couldn't be certain. But what I found so shocking was the fact that his only item of clothing was a faded shirt, freshly stained with blood at the hem. It was obvious to me what had happened to him, and I scooped Pearl up into my arms, partly to reassure myself that she couldn't be suddenly snatched away by some pervert, and partly to shield her from the sight.

"What's the matter?" Anamaria asked, turning to look back at me. I looked down at Pearl's inquisitive eyes, but I knew that Anamaria was already following my gaze.

"Si-Si?" Pearl queried worriedly, frowning up at me in her adorable manner. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," I lied, silently indicating to Anamaria that we continue on our way. "Yes, I'm fine."

* * *

"For God's sake!" Anamaria snapped to the dark woman cackling insanely outside a shabby little hut. "Teresa, it's me! Anamaria!"

The woman—Teresa, apparently—merely cackled again, and continued with her sweeping. Which in itself wouldn't have been odd, if she hadn't been sweeping the perfectly clear grass.

"Don't tell me I have to do it," my friend pleaded, but Teresa only cackled once more. Teresa was a reasonably attractive woman, I thought as we watched Anamaria barter with her for access to the shack. Her skin was darker than Anamaria's, and she was tall, slender, with a strong bone structure and black eyes that, despite her routine cackling, sparkled with a fierce intelligence.

"Alright!" Anamaria relented, and I could tell she wanted nothing more than to slap the other woman. Straightening her yellow headscarf, she intoned, somewhat embarrassedly, "Salutations on this suitably dreary winter's night, young crone."

Pearl and I both glanced at each other, and then around to assure ourselves that it was in fact day.

"We seek the wise and unrivalled counsel of the Wise Woman," Anamaria finished as though the words pained her.

Teresa cackled once more before saying, somewhat seriously, "The Wise Woman? The _Wise_ Woman, asks ye?"

Anamaria audibly swallowed, and I could taste her embarrassment. "Yes, the Wise Woman," she confirmed. "So if you'll please just—"

"And ye knoweth not of where ye might find the Wise Woman, aye?"

I was certain that was grammatically incorrect.

"Of course I do," Anamaria snapped. "She's in there, very probably attempting to sacrifice a headless chicken to the god of—"

"Know ye not of where findeth ye the Wise Woman, aye?" Teresa repeated firmly. Her grammar seemed to have worsened with every passing second. Anamaria groaned before saying somewhat tiredly that no, we did not know where the Wise Woman lurked, and could she, the benevolent young crone, please tell us?

"Aye, that I can, that I can," Teresa confirmed, before adding, rather viciously, "For a price."

"Still a shilling?" Anamaria asked, and Teresa snorted.

"With the rate of inflation rocketing as it is? Don't be ridiculous, it's three shillings and a pretty penny, not including the fifteen percent tip and twenty-four percent tax."

"Tax for what?" Anamaria demanded. Teresa was silent for a moment before cackling again. "You never used to charge for tax before."

"No, but a lot has changed since you've last saw us; now that we've joined a trade union, we _have_ to pay tax, otherwise we won't have any legal representatives whenever one of our clients sue us for malpractice, which if you'll remember, happens quite frequently. Thank ye kindly," she added, reverting back to that odd accent of hers that was part Irish, part cockney, and part West Country, with a bit of Jamaican thrown in. How I ever understood a word she was saying, I'll never know.

"The Wise Woman?" Teresa said after pocketing Anamaria's payment. "The Wise Woman, asks ye?"

Anamaria sighed once more. "Yes, the Wise Woman," she bantered. "Is this where she lives?"

Teresa cackled once more before adding, "That it be, miss, tha' it be!"

Anamaria snapped at this point.

"'Yes it is!'" she corrected, and Teresa clutched even tighter to her broomstick. "'Yes it is,' not 'That it be.' You can stop talking in that stupid voice, Teresa, you've made your point! Besides, we're not tourists, and no one believes that accent is real for a second!"

Teresa sulked at this, but Pearl raised up her little white hand and said, "Actually, Pearl thinks the accent is very real."

"So does Flavio," I heard the man say from behind me, whilst Jean-François commented he had no idea what was going on and was feeling rather left out of things, which everyone ignored.

"Aw, you little duckies are oh so very sweet," Teresa said fondly to both of them. "Took me three years of practising on Anamaria here to get it right, that did."

"And now you can practise on them three," Anamaria told Teresa as she grabbed my hand and steered me past her. "My friend and I are going in there alone, and I'll pay you more if you can keep them somewhat entertained, alright?"

"You can't just waltz in there without an appointment!" Teresa exclaimed.

"Is she attending to someone?" Anamaria asked the guardian.

"No, but it's only polite if—"

Anamaria said something that made Pearl blush, and then she was pulling me up the beaten dirt path and towards the ominously dark and shuttered shack with smoke billowing out of the chimney.

"God, that is foreboding," I told her. She shrugged, released my wrist, and hesitantly rested her hand on the door. Then, as though she had reached a decision, she gently pushed the wooden slab open. A smog came steaming out, making me reach up to cover my mouth and cough. Anamaria, also coughing, waved the smoke away, and very cautiously stuck her head inside. I heard something like glass or china breaking, followed by a shriek, and suddenly, Anamaria was staggering backwards as a woman with pale auburn hair latched herself about the pirate's neck, sobbing what seemed to me to be tears of joy.

"You came back to me! You came back! After all these years I thought you were dead, and now—oh, Anamaria!"

"Please get off me," Anamaria told the emotional woman calmly, pushing her away. Then, grabbing onto the redhead's shoulders, she gently forced her to turn to look at me standing by the door staring at the two of them in shock.

"Sierra," Anamaria said grimly, "This is my mother, Erin Branagh."

**-x!x-**

**AN:** It goes without saying that I enjoy twists…


	45. Pennyroyal, Love Spells, And Coconuts

**AN:** I know, I know, I'm terrible at updates, and this chapter isn't the most well-written either, but fear not, it does contain what vaguely resemble the beginnings of plot developments. Well, perhaps not _developments_, but rather clarifications; anyway…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Four:** Pennyroyal, Love Spells, And Dancing Coconuts_

"…So…" I said conversationally to my friend as Erin Branagh discreetly slipped away to another room separated by a flap of what I thought to be leather, "you have a mother?"

Anamaria merely shot me a disdainful look, and fiddled with the hem of her shirtsleeve.

"Well, I mean… _Obviously_ you've got a mother, but I…" I said, desperately groping for a sensible topic. "Well… _Erin Branagh?_"

"Yes, that is her name," Anamaria confirmed, looking at me from out of the corner of her eye. "Why?"

I was looking at her, unconsciously wrinkling my nose. "Anamaria _Branagh?_" I asked. "I'm sorry, but it just doesn't have a ring to it."

"And this matters because…?"

"Well, because—because it doesn't really, actually, but you've just dropped a—a—something so incredibly explosive that no word has of yet been invented to describe it."

Anamaria remained stubbornly silent, picking at an invisible bit of lint from off her breeches.

"I mean, it's just—you have a _mother_," I said again, whilst from somewhere behind the curtain came the clattering of something metallic. "A… a… midwife, is she?"

"In a manner of speaking," Anamaria admitted, looking at me and sighing. "My mother, she's… she's many things." She was silent at this point, before hesitantly adding, "Things which are quite suspicious and more often than not considered unacceptable. Things which most are unwilling to admit actually exist, shameful as they are."

"Oh," I said, more taken aback by Anamaria's voice and expression than by her actual words. Looking at her unnaturally blank face, I realised that it must have cost her immensely to bring me here; I wasn't certain, but I had a sneaking suspicion that the pirate hadn't been on the best of terms with her mother when she'd left home, a fact that, judging by her warm welcome, Erin quickly forgotten. A part of me wanted to ask her what had occurred between the two, but a more dominant part of my mind knew that I would more likely than not receive a piercing stare for all of my trouble. Then again, I couldn't sit in this lengthening silence, so instead I asked, "Who's Teresa?"

Anamaria stared at me once more. "What?"

"Teresa," I said again. "Who is she? I mean, how does your mother know her?"

"Through my pa," Anamaria said at long last, as though she'd rather not talk about it. "Family."

"Oh, so Teresa must be your… cousin?" I guessed.

"Sister," Anamaria corrected, ignoring the mewling of a calico kitten that had just crawled from under the flap. "Well, half-sister, in any case." The little kitten had by now trotted over to sit by Anamaria's foot, and was looking plaintively up at the woman. I watched in fascination as it reached out a little black paw to touch her booted toe. Only then did Anamaria become aware of the animal's existence; she reached down to absent-mindedly rub its tiny head, her expression calmly controlled.

"I don't mean to pry, but where is your father?"

"Dead," she said, simply.

"Oh," I said again. And then, a little insensitively, "Sorry."

I could tell from Anamaria's expression that she didn't believe me for a minute—and who could blame her? "My pa worked on one o' the plantations a little further inland," she said, just as I was opening my mouth. "When his first wife died, he escaped with their two children to Kingston Town. Not quite sure how he met my ma, but he did, and they settled down for a few years. According to my ma, he was found by the slave master, taken back, and whipped so brutally that he died."

"Oh," was all I said. I was feeling strangely mute that day, and Anamaria raised a dark eyebrow at my lacking eloquence. Feeling the suffocating awkwardness of silence descending once more, and not in the mood to delve further into Anamaria's family history, I asked, "Can I play with that kitten?"

Anamaria's response was to gently give the animal a slight nudge with her toe, but the creature sat back on its haunches, looking self-pityingly up at her. I rose from my seat and took a step or two forwards before crouching down and cooing softly as I reached out to pet its head. The animal's back arched at my touch, and for a moment I thought that it would attack me, but thankfully all that the creature did was snarl. Feeling slightly put out, I hurriedly pulled my hand back, and stared as the creature continued to nuzzle Anamaria's foot.

"Right then," Erin said cheerfully, emerging from beneath the flap with a heavy iron pot filled with several miscellaneous items. She set it down between Anamaria and I with a metallic clang that had the kitten jumping away with a mewl of surprise, crawling to cower beneath Mrs Branagh's skirts in fear. The woman ignored the little invader, brushing her copper hair beneath her ear and smiling pleasantly down at me.

"Are you _certain_," she began, "that you are quick with child?"

"Well, _yes_," I said.

"_Actually_," Anamaria cut across, "I'm not certain that she is."

I turned to look at her in disbelief. "It's not your body," I reminded. "How would you know?"

"I still think there's a chance that it's what you've not been eating an' fatigue," Anamaria insisted stubbornly. "But of course, considering your way of life, it's possible that you are." She turned back to her mother, whose eyes seemed to light up as they fell on her daughter's face. "Ma, can you please… check?"

"Oh, but of course!" Erin replied, beaming widely at her daughter. She then turned to me and said, quite shamelessly, "Now dearie, if you'll please undress…"

I stared at her for a moment in shock.

"…_What?_"

"Undress," Erin repeated kindly, green eyes sparkling. "So I can see if you've any of the signs."

"Oh. _Oh._ Well I—yes, yes, of course I'll—" I consented, reaching up to pull at the laces on my stay. My fingers halted, and I raised my eyes to look meaningfully at Anamaria. "May I have some privacy?" I asked pointedly.

Anamaria rolled her brown eyes and snorted; "I never thought you'll be one for modesty," was all that she said before turning on her heel and marching back to the door. The kitten popped its little head curiously from under Erin's skirt and mewed to communicate its disappointment at not having said goodbye. I tore my gaze away from the little creature and looked back up at Mrs Branagh, smiling nervously.

"Um… When you said undress, did you mean… completely?"

Erin smiled gently at me. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't feel so ashamed," she sighed, shaking her head.

"It's not that I'm _ashamed_, it's just… Well, this is something I've never done before, and…"

Erin reached out and clasped my hand in her warm, firm grip. "Say no more, child," she said to me. "I understand." There was a pause, and then she added, "All I need to see is your bosom and stomach, so to answer to your question, no, you needn't undress _completely_."

I nodded at this. "Al—Alright…" I said, feeling painfully shy as I pulled the stay off of my shoulders and carefully unbuttoned the shift I wore under it in place of a shirt. I hesitated when the last button just above my navel was undone, then hurriedly pulled my arms out of the sleeves and pushed the material down to my waist, looking determinedly up at the dark ceiling and silently telling myself not to blush; after all, this wasn't the first time that I'd disrobed for an utter stranger, and to be honest, I really had nothing to be ashamed of.

"_Ow!_" I exclaimed, as she pinched me rather brutally on one nipple.

"It seems as if you're quite sensitive there," Erin told me. "How far along are you, child?"

"Um… about a month, I suppose, perhaps a little more."

"Ah. I see; so you really won't be showing at all, will you?"

I shook my head, and she tutted in… Actually, I've no idea why she tutted. Let's just say that she did and not question her motives for doing so.

"Oh my; well, this _is_ a dilemma, but I applaud you for coming to me as early as you have. It makes the entire process a lot easier and less painful."

"Please, Mrs Branagh—"

"_Miss_," Erin corrected with a soft smile. "Just Miss; I never did marry Thomas…" she trailed off wistfully.

"Why not?" I asked in spite of myself, knowing full well it was rude to pry.

"Well, what with his being a runaway slave and vagrant—Anamaria did tell you, didn't she? I thought I heard her—a wedding service would have been far too dangerous for him, what with the publishing of the banns and the like."

"Of course," I agreed with her. "Very well, _Miss_ Branagh then; can you please tell me, exactly what does the… the process involve?"

"Oh, there are many ways, many methods," Erin dismissed with a wave of her hand. "But for you, I'm afraid we'll have to use a douche; or at least, that was what my mother called it. Nothing to worry about, just some warm water squirted up—"

"Right! Right, and this… This douche, um…" I stumbled clumsily before cursing my nervousness and blurting out simply, "Will it _damage_ anything? I mean, will it… reduce my fertility?"

Erin caught the quiet desperation in my tone, and lifted her eyes away from my flat stomach long enough to look at my face, which was still determinedly turned towards the low, dark ceiling, and chuckle.

"Why, is there a gentleman you've your eye on, child?" she teased. "Some man you wish yourself married to, perhaps, with a brood of your own? For if there is, I'll assume that he is the father of _this_," and she placed a hand on my belly, "and if he is the father of this child, then I can't help but wonder why you'll wish yourself to be rid of this brat now."

"Oh no," I said hurriedly. "No no no no no, it's not like that between Jack and I at all; you see, I was a whore, and—" I fell silent when I realised that this probably wasn't the _best_ way of making friends with this woman.

Erin gaped at me in astonishment for a moment before throwing back her head and laughing. "Your unabashed honesty is most refreshing, Miss… Sierra, is it?" I nodded and turned away, hurriedly plunging my arms back into my shift and buttoning up the cheap cotton as fast as I could. I could've sworn I heard Erin smile as she picked up the pot and moved towards the slightly blackened hearth, the little kitten following her the whole time. She carefully hooked the cauldron onto a long, dark frame that I hadn't noticed in the gloomy room, and rummaged through the cauldron, tossing objects aside here and there and accidentally hitting the little cat, who mewled and came crawling towards me, apparently having forgotten its earlier hostility. Finally, she straightened, and tucking yet another strand of faded red behind her ear, spun on her heel to face me, holding out a cloth package of something.

"For _you_, dearest," she said to me in that oddly maternal way of hers. "In case such a… a _mistake_ occurs again."

I looked at the package hesitantly before stepping forward and allowing her to drop the rectangle into my palm.

"It's pennyroyal," she said to me as I brought the present up to my nose, sniffing it suspiciously. "Have you ever heard of pennyroyal before?"

"Yes," I told her, "but I didn't know that it could… Actually, I don't know anything about it at all."

Well pennyroyal tea, if taken in high doses on a regular basis, can induce miscarriage." I looked up to see her smirking at me. "And considering your, ah, _unconventional_ behaviour, I've a suspicion you may once again find yourself in need of a helping hand. Ask Anamaria to help you prepare it; I know that a pirate ship is not the most homely or private of places, but I'm certain that the two of you can find time enough to indulge in such… such personal affairs."

"Well, thank you," I said to her, looking down at the bundled herbs. I hesitated once more before looking up and quietly addressing her as well-mannered as I could.

"Has anyone ever told you that, for a common whore, you're surprisingly courteous?" she laughed, clearly delighted at being addressed so respectfully.

It was on the tip of my tongue to point out that, for a common 'wise woman' living in a two-bedroom hovel with at least one illegitimate child, she was surprisingly well-spoken, but I held my tongue in check. "Mrs Branagh," I said again, "when I was working as a whore in Tortuga, we were given what I was told was called Queen Anne's Lace to ensure that we didn't end up with a client's bastard; I was wondering, do you have anything of that sort as opposed to _this_? Or can pennyroyal be used to prevent conception as well?"

"Oh heavens child, no!" Erin enlightened. "No, this herb is far too strong to be taken for more than a week at a time. And as for Queen Anne's Lace, well, I'm sorry to say, but I no longer have any seeds." And she fixed me with an apologetic stare that made me feel slightly uncomfortable.

"Why don't you go outside?" Erin suggested suddenly. "It's a lovely day, as is the norm in these parts, and I've some preparation to do before we can begin."

I told her that it was a very good idea, and bent down to scoop up the kitten, who was nuzzling my ankle most contentedly by this point, having decided that I was worthy of its affection.

"Oh, and Miss Sierra?" she called out as I reached the door. "Perhaps, whilst you wait, might I suggest that you've a word with Teresa?"

"About anything in particular?" I queried.

"Oh yes; namely, the curse she claimed to have cast over a man named Jack Sparrow some seven years ago."

I turned completely to look at her, the kitten purring into my shoulder. "'Curse?'" I repeated sceptically. "Jack claims to have encountered so many curses that I'm not as intrigued as I perhaps should be."

Erin's face seemed to fall slightly. "Oh, what a pity," she sighed, smoothing down her skirt. "You see, this curse in particular is rather unique in that in some ways, it is not what one would call a curse at all; more of a spell. A love spell, to be precise."

Despite my scepticism, I couldn't help but be intrigued; Jack and a love spell? A fascinatingly lurid combination.

"I can't really say much more, as I don't know very much about it, but from what Teresa told me between her bouts of maniacal cackling, it has something to do with some woman raised in—and this sounds incredibly far-fetched, I know—the future." Her tone and expression was flippant; I, on the other hand was so surprised that I very nearly dropped the cat. The animal very quickly sunk its little claws into my bodice, snarling once more, but I ignored the pain the feline was causing.

"A woman… from… the _future_?" I asked, uncertain if I had her heard right.

"Yes, that's right," she confirmed, looking squarely into my eyes. "I just thought it might have been something you'll be interested in. That's all."

I was suddenly very glad that I was going out of the shack after all; I found that I needed the air. So I stumbled gracelessly through the door, clinging tightly to the kitten, and came face to face with the sight of little Pearl seated cross-legged opposite Teresa herself on the dry grass, the broom having been quite abandoned at the gate, whilst the remaining three from our little party watched the two in a polite fascination.

"Ah, now let me see…" Teresa was saying as she studied Pearl's palm carefully. She frowned in confusion, and then leant forward, peering closely at Pearl's flawless digits.

"Hmm…" she said to herself. "How very interesting…"

"Well?" Pearl asked, politely albeit impatiently. "What is it? What do you see?"

Teresa paused, for dramatic effect if nothing else. And then:

"_Death_," she said gravely. "I… see… _death_… And coconuts," she added, frowning. "I see coconuts, but I'm not quite certain of what that has to do with…" Another beat. "_Death…_"

Pearl's little nose was sweetly furrowed by this. "Death _by_ coconuts?" she asked.

"The coconuts have nothing to do with the death!" Teresa snapped waspishly. "The coconuts are there—there on your thumb! Look, do you see them?—dancing…"

I saw Pearl frown and look about her for help; her little blue eyes lit up when they fell on me and the kitten, and she waved with her free hand. I returned her smile, and she grinned widely before turning back to look up at Teresa in confusion. "Dancing?" she asked the woman. "The coconuts are dancing?"

"Aye, dancing!" Teresa agreed; then, quite suddenly, she turned her head and spat onto the grass, causing me to take an involuntary step back in disgust, even though the two were nowhere near me. "They mock me with their graceful, elegant dancing, those bastard coconuts; _mock_ me, I tell you!"

"Yes, yes, alright," Pearl said hurriedly. "Don't say such things; my papa would be very upset to know that you said such things within my hearing, yes he will."

"Damn your papa!" Teresa spat most vehemently, flinging Pearl's hand away. "Damn his soul! Damn his hat! Damn his duck pond!"

"Papa doesn't have a duck pond," Pearl pointed out sweetly. "And I don't know if he has a soul either…"

"Well, I damn them both regardless," Teresa sniffed. Pearl was looking quite worried now, and was slowly shuffling away from the woman, who had taken to cackling insanely once more.

"Si-Si…?" she asked frantically. I tightened my grip on the kitten and hurried towards the child, who leapt up into my arms, scowling to find that in the short time she'd been separated from me, a cat had already claimed me as his own. After kissing her forehead, stroking her black hair, and reassuring her that everything will be alright and that I _did not_ prefer the kitten to her, I turned my attention to Teresa, who was still cackling and had now taken to rocking back and forth. I honestly couldn't see how, this lunatic could have "cursed" Jack, much less why, and it wasn't simply because I didn't believe in magic or witches and the like either.

But then again, how else could Erin have known that I wasn't exactly of this world? I obviously hadn't told her, or indeed, anyone. And well, I suppose that time travel could only _really_ be achieved by magic, of a kind, and that had happened to me, hadn't it?

I shook my head in confusion and clung tighter onto Pearl. The kitten, apparently very miffed, scrambled up to curl itself on my shoulder, and I saw it pawing curiously at Pearl's head, something which the eight-year-old clearly wasn't fond of.

Looking cynically back at Teresa, I attempted to overcome my doubt, tried to clear mind and think of her as a… well, a witch, I suppose. Only one thing was clear to me; Teresa certainly, in her own warped and vaguely humorous way, appeared to fulfil all the specifications and clichés associated with witchery. So perhaps I shouldn't be so dismissive of her abilities, after all. And well, the theory of magical spells was _feasible_, I suppose; at least, that was the only explanation I could come up with for Erin's apparent omniscience.

**-x!x-**


	46. Little Pearl’s Big Speech

**Disclaimer:** Some things in this chapter respectively belong to the BBC, Stephen Fry, and Steven Moffat, but I think I'll leave it to you work out which is theirs and which is mine.

**AN:** There is a very long, slightly intimidating paragraph somewhere in this chapter, but please don't be tempted to skip or skim it; it's the best part, and if you love Pearl, I guarantee that you'll love it.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Five:** Little Pearl's Big Speech_

"Jack Sparrow?" Teresa repeated when I'd cautiously let the name slip into the conversation. "Jack Sparrow, did you say?"

"…Yes…" I confirmed warily.

"Bastard!" she cried, and, quite vehemently, spat on the ground. I pulled a face at this, glad that I was seated before her, and not to her left, where the spittle had landed. "I hate that useless—pathetic—effeminate—_disgustingly attractive_ individual with a _fiery passion!_"

"And who can blame you?" I hurried to assure her, and she nodded most vigorously.

"Honestly, if he wasn't arrested on a regular basis, I'd have _done something_ to him that's quite horrible and very slightly unfair in that the punishment is disproportionate to his crimes."

"You know, I don't like him very much either…" I confessed conspiratorially whilst she continued to rock back and forth. Teresa's dark eyes had lit up at this, and then she'd pounced suddenly upon my hand, shaking it most energetically. "I mean, he… He, um… Well, he's…" I struggled to name an aspect of Jack's personality that was worthy of a love spell-cum-curse. "He's quite… Oh, what's the word I'm looking for? …There isn't a word for it, but I'd say that he… He's very… _disagreeable_."

Pearl giggled suddenly, her dark head resting on my knee whilst the kitten lay curled up on my lap. "Si-Si can't say a single bad thing about Papa!" she gloated gleefully. "Si-Si thinks he's _per-fect!_ Si-Si is in love with him!"

I stuffed the package of pennyroyal Erin had given me into her mouth to shut her up. It might be considered as child abuse, considering how the midwife had mentioned that the herb could be quite poisonous, but I didn't really care at that particular moment. The kitten lifted its head and looked curiously at Pearl, a little paw reaching out to bat at the child's forehead, mewling as Pearl glared up at it.

"Do you know…" I continued conversationally, my hand slamming over Pearl's mouth to prevent her from removing the bundle, "I was talking to your mother—stepmother, sorry, and she mentioned that you placed a—a sort of _curse_ upon Jack Sparrow."

Pearl, who had been struggling feebly against my grip, suddenly went very still, and I knew that she was listening intently.

Teresa merely frowned at my blunt words. "Now, why would I put a curse on Jack Sparrow?" she wondered aloud.

"Well, that's what I would like to know," I told her, trying to keep my voice interested but detached, as though such a thing did not affect me. "Did he do something particularly horrible to you, some time in the past?"

"In the past?" Teresa snorted before cackling with delight once more. "_The past?_ He does it three times a day!"

"Three times a day?" I queried in disbelief.

"He'll never learn!" Teresa wailed in despair. "That idiotic boy! I mean, really, how can one person continuously burn bread over and over again? I've given up hope! And once old Jonah dies, I don't think I'll ever taste a slice of decently-cooked bread again." And she gave a dramatic shudder, her arms wrapping about her shoulders as she shivered.

"Burn bread?" I asked. "What do you mean, burn bread?"

"We _are_ talking about Jack Sparrow, aren't we?" Teresa asked.

"…Yes…"

"Jack Sparrow, who lives in the general direction of somewhere over there?" she asked, her hand making vague circling motions behind her head.

"_Lives?_" I repeated. "Um, no, I don't think so…Who are you talking about?"

Teresa dropped her hand and frowned at me. "I'm talking about Jack Sparrow," she said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Who are _you_ talking about?"

"Jack Sparrow," I confirmed, feeling slightly confused.

There was a very awkward silence between the two of us. I could have sworn a tumbleweed was meant to roll by us at this point.

"Um, are we talking about the _same_ Jack Sparrow?"

"Well, we must be," Teresa replied, although her own voice sounded uncertain to my ears. "How many Jack Sparrows can there be in this part of the Caribbean?"

"Right. So we're both talking about the same Jack Sparrow, then."

"Aye; Jack Sparrow, the baker boy."

Pearl made a funny noise that could have been a laugh at these words, whilst I merely widened my eyes and gaped at her.

"_The baker boy?_" I almost yelled. "I'm talking about Jack Sparrow, the _pirate!_"

Teresa gasped, and I looked towards her to see that her dark eyes were wide and shining with admiration. "_You_ know Jack Sparrow?" I asked, her tone disbelieving. "_The_ Jack Sparrow?"

"_Yes,_" I said slowly. "But that's nothing compared to Jack Sparrow the baker boy. Yes, Pearl?" I added, noting that her fingers were batting at my wrist. I very carefully pulled the pouch from between her little white teeth, stroking the edges of her mouth whilst she stretched out her jaw and pulled faces. "If your next words are productive and relevant, I'll keep you gag-less for the rest of the conversation."

"_Captain,_" Pearl corrected imperiously. "_Captain_ Jack Sparrow."

I shook my head and sighed. "Not good enough," I told her, and shoved the bundle into her mouth once more before she started singing about how much I loved her father. I looked up at a bemused Teresa, grinning slightly; I hadn't really wanted Pearl around to eavesdrop to my possibly unmasking conversation with Teresa, but she had insisted on not leaving me, and she had pouted, so I had relented and allowed her to curl up beside me.

"Oh, the _pirate_," Teresa said. "Oh, yes, that would make far more sense; what a wanker that man is! Yes, yes I did 'curse' him, many years ago, but—but I don't think it worked though."

"Your stepmother said it was a love spell of a kind," I said, feeling my pulse quickening. "And, and I was curious, because, because you see, I… I love him. In my own way, I suppose I love him. But if there was a love spell involved, and there's another woman waiting for him, then I'm wasting my time, aren't I?"

"Si-Si," Pearl said, having surreptitiously removed the gag from her mouth. "Si-Si, you don't honestly believe in—"

I looked down at her, my eyebrow raised in a way that made her gulp, shove the bundle back in her mouth, and lie very still, her blue eyes silently screaming, _I'll be very, very good._

"Oh, darling," Teresa cooed, snatching up my hand and squeezing it encouragingly. "Don't worry about _that_; listen, if it makes you feel any better, the, ah, 'love spell' was one-sided."

I couldn't believe my ears. "One-sided?" I asked. "And by one-sided, I presume you mean that Jack is not the side that is affected?"

"Oh, no no no no," Teresa reassured me. "Let me explain: the um, woman that is affected—at least, if she ever bloody shows up—"

"Shows up?" I asked, taken aback. "You mean, she's not yet _here_?"

"I can't really say very much about her," Teresa told me apologetically. "Pagan-client confidentiality and whatnot, but all you need know—and I don't see why you should—is that she's not quite of this world, and well, eight years have passed and I've seen neither hide nor hair of her and—" She stopped suddenly, her hands covering her mouth. "Oh, I can't say anymore!" she wailed. "The pixies will come and get me!"

Pearl took this moment to whimper, clearly annoyed at being ignored. I smiled down at her pouting features, my hand reaching out to push back her hair so I could kiss her smooth brow. "Don't worry, honey, I've not forgotten about you," I told her fondly, tracing her soft, straight nose. Her response to such a statement was to tilt her head back ever so slightly and playfully attempt to nip at my finger, and I laughed. "You're so adorable," I gushed, ignoring how Teresa was subtly retching at the two of us. "How do you continue to be so lovely and adorable and only slightly annoying, but in an adorable way nevertheless?"

Pearl's face broke into a bright, wide smile. "Ah, I'm glad you asked!" she said, sitting up suddenly and hissing at the kitten, who mewed back. "You see, in the three weeks or so that you've not been basking in the glory of my lovely adorability and slight annoyingness, I've had time to think and contemplate upon such a dilemma, and I've finally come up with the answer. Would you like me to tell you why?" she asked sweetly. Before I had a chance to answer, she ploughed on:

"I think it was my Mama, that great wonderfully angelic seraphic creature, who first pointed out how lovely I was, very probably the very day I was born, I should think, because for as long as I can remember, I've always been lovely, in a petite, compact sort of way. Until that time, I think it was safe to say that I had never really been aware of my own sweet, irresistible, timeless brand of loveliness. But her words do not do me, in all my splendid loveliness, justice, because of course, you see, I _am_ lovely, in a fluffy, moist and extremely obvious kind of a way, and who would have it otherwise? I walk, and let's be splendidly descriptive about this, in a lightly accented and glittering, shining cloud of gorgeousness that isn't far short of being, quite simply, inexplicably cherubic. The secret of such smooth, almost shiny loveliness of the order of which we're discussing here, nestled before an insubstantial shack in the company of a fluffy, four-legged _thing_ and an odd, deranged woman a few eggs short of an omelette, and we are, of course, discussing such loveliness," and she gestured rather elegantly and yet ever so endearingly at her face, "in this simple, frank, creamy soft way—it does not, of course, reside in oils, unguents, balms, ointments, creams, astringents, milks, moisturisers, liniments, lubricants, embrocations or balsams, to be rather divinely loquacious for just one noble, splendid moment, _no_: It resides, as these things tend to do, and I mean this in a delightful, pink, and ever so slightly—actually, _very_—special way, in one's attitude of mind. To be gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely and shiny and glittery, all you have to do is _believe_ that one is gorgeous and high and true and fine and fluffy and moist and sticky and lovely and shiny and glittery. And I believe it of myself, hesitantly, tentatively, tremulously at first, and then with confidently mounting heat and passion because, and let's stop for a second so that we might all collectively reflect upon my utterly endearing lovely flawlessness once again, I'm so often _told_ it.

"…And that's the secret, really," she concluded smugly, tossing her ebony hair back over her shoulder. "That's how I've constantly continued being so continuously lovely all this time." And she looked up at me expectantly with her giant blue eyes.

"Um… yes…" was all I could manage. "Yes, that's very… thoroughly thought out."

"I'm glad to hear that _you_, my own personal pretty Si-Si," and she actually had the gall to chuck me under the chin with her balled little white fist at this, "think so; now, as for my adorability; _well_, might I begin with a quote from the great—but not as great as _me_, of course—"

"Yes Pearl, that's quite enough," I interrupted, stuffing the herbal gag back into her mouth with an indignant squeak. "It was a rhetorical question, although I have to compliment you on your fantastic grammar and wide-ranging vocabulary. _Anyway_…" I said, turning back to Teresa, who was staring down at Pearl in shock. "Jack Sparrow, one-sided love spell? Care to continue with your speech? Not you, Pearl," I added on seeing her little white hand moving up to her mouth once more. "_You_," I pointed to Teresa, who was viewing me with unguarded suspicion.

"Why are you so desperate to know about this love spell, and this woman, and the unrequited love that she has for a certain bastard who shares his name with an inept baker of bread, if I may be so bold to ask?" she said, looking at me from under narrowed lids.

I looked her unflinchingly in the eye. "Why do you think?" I asked softly, but with a slight challenge to my voice.

Teresa looked at me in disbelief. "Are you asking me to think for myself?" she gasped in horror. "I don't think I can actually _do_ that; no one's ever really encouraged me to think for myself before… Oh, I'm feeling so overwhelmed," she said breathlessly, fanning herself with her hand.

"Well… now's your chance," I encouraged, and she nodded.

"I know I know I know; oh my holy haddock, I'm feeling so very underdressed," she commented, smoothing down her skirt and self-consciously patting her hair. "Let me see, let me see; well, the only reason I can think of is that you are somehow connected to this woman from this other place that's not really here and yet is sort of here—I refer to the place, and not the woman, as the bitch has decided that she's above such binding enchantments as love spells, the little whore—or, that you…" She stopped suddenly, looking at me with widened brown eyes, and gasped, her hands covering her mouth once more as her eyes roamed over me as though seeing me for the first time.

"Oh!" she gasped. "Oh—oh my—great gelding! Are you—are _you_—" she gasped. I merely raised an eyebrow as a way of silently asking her to continue, although my stomach knotted in sudden nervousness as I wondered what Pearl's reaction to this would be. Oh, who am I kidding? A woman from the future involuntarily bound to Jack Sparrow via a "love curse?" She'd love it.

"I know _exactly_ who you are!" Teresa gleefully exclaimed, clapping her hands excitedly and looking quite childlike and therefore slightly adora—oh God, not another one. I kept encountering adorable people in this time period. "Exactly who you are! I can't _believe_ that I didn't realise it before!"

"Oh?" I queried, toying with Pearl's dark hair, trying to ignore how my fingers were trembling with sickening anticipation. "Who—Who am I then?"

She raised her hand and pointed her index finger dramatically, triumphantly at me. "You're Susan the Happy Trotting Elf!" she declared.

There was a very awkward pause, as you can imagine, in which Pearl and I looked at one another in uncertainty whilst Teresa beamed brightly at us. From somewhere to my right, I head Flavio exclaim excitedly, "The Happy Trotting Elf? _The_ Happy Trotting Elf? Ooh, did you hear that, Jeanette? I _love_ happy trotting elves!" And suddenly, he was beside us, dragging both Jean and Anamaria behind him by the ear and humming a merry tune whilst he plopped himself down a foot or so away from where I sat and releasing the two pirates' ears without another thought.

"The Happy Trotting Elf?" I asked Teresa whilst Flavio rather rudely reached out to steal my kitten. "I've never heard of a Happy Trotting Elf."

Both Teresa and Flavio gave a unanimous gasp of shock and horror.

"_Not_ heard of the Happy Trotting Elf?" Teresa cried out in disbelief.

"How can one with such an unnaturally large bosom not know of the Happy Trotting Elf?" Flavio contributed, and I scowled; it was one thing to be wrongly accused of having a boob job back home, but in _this_ context…

"Susan the Happy Trotting Elf," Teresa persisted. "Like the song."

"Song?" I asked, utterly bewildered.

Teresa gaped at us whilst Flavio decided to helpfully yelp, "How can you _not_ know of the song?"

"My point exactly, Arabellinasotema," Teresa agreed, glancing towards the man—woman—man—woman—_thing_. "How can you not know of the song?"

"What's the song go like?" Pearl queried curiously, having cunningly de-gagged herself once more. "Pearl likes to hear about new things, because it makes her seem more cleverer."

"Grammar…" I said to her warningly, and she sulked.

"_I'm Susan, the happy trotting elf,_" Flavio began quite uninvited, dreamily stroking the kitten. "_I trot and trot and—_"

"_Bounce and bounce,_" Teresa enthusiastically joined in, "_And smile a lot and that's what counts; I'm Susan, the happy trotting smile-a-lotting elf! I'm_—"

"Oh Christ, why don't you two just get married?" Anamaria muttered, clearly peeved to involuntarily hear this song being recited before her.

"Oh, I would if I could marry Arabellina if—" Teresa told us.

"Arabellina_sotema_," Flavio corrected, sounding delighted at having someone call him by his 'real' name.

"Sorry—I would marry Arabellinasotema if I could, but the sad fact is that we are both women, and so such an arrangement would be frowned upon. And besides, I've taken a vow of chastity," she added touchily. "I'm a virgin until Mother dies; then I'll just take everything I get."

"That's not the impression Jack Sparrow got when 'e first showed up," Anamaria commented lightly but provocatively.

Teresa laughed and rolled her eyes. "Anamaria, my naïve little sister, I've explained it to you before," she said haughtily, "a woman can be unclothed and in bed with a similarly undressed man and remain a virgin; it was all perfectly innocent. _Really._"

"Then why did you try to 'curse' him when he stole all your coin and left to search for that other woman?" she challenged, and Teresa pulled a face.

"Why are you people so interested in Jack Sparrow all of a sudden?" Teresa huffed, crossing her arms in annoyance. "Doesn't anyone care about _me_? I'm amusing and intelligent and well-versed in spells and curses and myth and folklore and I'm an extremely good cook—isn't _anyone_ interested?"

Nobody answered her; she scowled and leapt to her feet, snatched up her broom, and flounced theatrically back to her hut. I very gently pushed Pearl off of my knee, distractedly instructed her to stay put, and followed, grabbing her arm as she reached the door.

"You said that this love spell was a curse," I told her evenly, refusing to release her arm. "In what way is it a curse? What do you mean to happen?"

Teresa looked coldly into my eyes, and I flinched at the anger and bitterness that I found in those brown orbs, but somehow maintained my grip. "How is it a curse?"

"I can't say," she told me stubbornly, and there was no trace of the humorous madness so apparent in her before; just the cold, icy rage of a woman scorned.

"Then tell me about the woman. Please," I persisted. "What was it about her that you just _had_ to have her and no one else, that you had to pluck _her_ from her own world instead of settling for someone in this one?" In other words, _Why me?_

Teresa looked at me evenly. "You really do love him, don't you?" she asked. "I pity you."

"Why her?" I persevered. "And why force her to fall in love with him and not have him fall in love with her?"

"_Because,_" Teresa said bitingly, "I made her so."

"You… You _made_ her so?" I repeated.

"That's right," Teresa told me conceitedly. "If it wasn't for me, this woman would never even have existed; she owes me her very life."

I threw her arm away, angered. "I don't think so, somehow," I said. "Doesn't this woman have parents, doesn't she have a family, or did you _create_ them as well?" 'Scathing sarcasm' doesn't even begin to describe my tone of voice.

Teresa was looking at me in amusement. "I like your spirit," she said admiringly. "For a Happy Trotting Elf, you're very argumentative and confrontational and bitter and ever so slightly obsessive, but I like you, although I do envy you your bosom."

I automatically looked down at my chest and shrugged. "I don't blame you; most women resent my voluptuous yet fashionable figure," I told her in all earnest modesty.

Teresa raised an eyebrow and scowled. "Alright then, you odd little elf, I'll tell you want to know. Why don't you sit down—no, not right _now!_" she exclaimed, pulling me towards her and beating at the air with her broom.

"Why not?" I asked her, confused.

She shot me a disdainful glance. "_Because,_" she said slowly, as though she was telling me that the sun only shone during the day, "you'll convert the pixie dust into elf glitter, and I'm already on shaky ground with the pixies; if I give them a reason to believe I've gone over to the side of the elves, they'll place a terrible curse, and—" here she shuddered rather melodramatically. "And I'll be forced to live out the rest of my days as a _Neapolitan goat herder_!"

"…Right…" I said uncertainly whilst wondering what was so wrong with being Neapolitan; alright, so their accents weren't the most charming you'll find in Italy, but it wasn't near half as bad as the Romans. Then again, I may have been slightly prejudiced, as my Italian when I spoke was pure Tuscan; I know that this rant is slightly off topic, but if you had a Florentine for a mother, you'll be proud of your Italian too. And Neapolitan wasn't _that_ bad.

"So," I said to Teresa, "what do you propose?"

"That we go inside, of course," Teresa told me, looking suspiciously about her as she tightly clung onto her broom. "The pixies have spies everywhere, those bastards. Nearly as bad as the bloody dancing coconuts."

…You can't blame me if I told you that I found it hard to believe that this woman was solely responsible for "creating" me…

**-x!x-**

**AN:** There was originally meant to be more plot developments in this chapter, but as usual, Pearl, Flavio and now Teresa took over…


	47. Away With The Pixies

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Six:** Away With The Pixies_

Before Teresa could sit me down and impart the long, winding tale of how I came into being, she had to—_had to_—pixie-proof the place. Pixie-proofing was divided into two halves:

_**1.** Offer a symbolic gift to a pixie representative._

In this case, the pixie representative was Pearl, and not least because her name began with a 'P.' Teresa then forced me to wait outside the hut like a pregnant but pretty idiot whilst she dived inside in search of an appeasing offering. During this time, Pearl came crawling up to me, wrapped her arms about my leg, buried her face in my skirt, told me she was very scared indeed, and why oh why oh _why_ must we stay here? I patted her head and told her it was her own choice to follow me, that I had warned her not to, and thus saw no reason to answer her queries, causing the child to sulk.

After eleven minutes and thirty-six seconds or thereabout, Teresa returned in an oddly sombre manner, holding what looked like an elongated sphere of sharp, shining metal supported by fraying black string, which she gave to Pearl, her face contorting with repressed tears.

"What is it?" the child asked, twirling the spiky metallic mass which resembled a silver hedgehog on the black rope. I tapped her head in disapproval.

"Don't be so rude," I rebuked. "Have you no manners? I want you to thank the insane bat."

Pearl meekly lowered her odd gift and bowed her head in submission. "Thank you, Miss Insane Bat," she recited obediently.

Teresa shrugged, and dived back into her hut so that she might continue with the second stage of her pixie-purge, leaving the pregnant but pretty idiot and the pixie representative to gaze down at the symbolic offering in confusion.

"Are these pins?" Pearl asked, shaking the elongated spherical hedgehog. "Did Miss Insane Bat give the pixies a pincushion?"

I frowned and gently plucked the dry but oddly silky cord from between Pearl's white little fingers, spinning it this way and that. "If it's a pincushion, why would she stick pins _all_ the way around it?" I queried thoughtfully. "You can't even see the original material."

Pearl reached up and tentatively plucked a shining pin from a random point in the mass, and I pulled the metal quickly out of her grasp in case she accidentally hurt herself before indicating she sit down.

"Do you know, I don't think this is actually a pincushion at all…" I told her, rubbing the black hair—for that was, I realised, exactly what the cord was—between my fingers. "I think it's something else entirely…"

"What?" Pearl pounced eagerly. "Is it something more interesting than a simple pincushion?"

"Let's find out," I said, dropping the pin I had confiscated from Pearl on the ground beside us. "Start here," I indicated a point at the top where there appeared to be a slightly smaller sphere connected to the long strand of hair, and we then proceeded to pull the pins out of the object. Within five minutes, a vaguely familiar face, painted with an expression of absolute terror and topped by a miniature red headscarf, came into view, and I giggled in spite of the negative connotations it had for Jack's overall welfare.

"What?" Pearl demanded in that adorable squeak of hers. "What is so amusing to my Si-Si?"

"Pearl…" I said, turning the doll so that the child could see its face properly. "Does he look familiar?"

Pearl peered closely at the painted face, eyes widening as realisation dawned in one gasp. "That's Papa!" she exclaimed. "That's _exactly_ Papa when Mama told him he fathered another child on her a year ago!"

Good God, how high was this man's sperm count?

"_Another_ one?" I queried, and she nodded enthusiastically.

"She didn't come to term though," Pearl said, a hint of sadness tingeing her voice. "She was very unhappy when she lost it, my Mama…"

I reached out and rubbed her shoulder comfortingly. "Oh darling…" I sympathised.

"But… But why would Miss Insane Bat use a Papa-shaped poppet as a pincushion?" she questioned, honestly confused. I looked down at the long strip of what I realised was Jack's hair, uncertain of how to reply.

"…A novel way of wrapping up a gift?" I said, deciding not to voice my true opinions lest Pearl become upset.

"Oh," Pearl breathed, sitting back on her haunches. "Do you know, for a moment there I was very worried that Miss Insane Bat had placed a sort of curse on my Papa…"

I gave her a mild glare. "Why is it that you always pretend never to know anything when you actually do?"

Pearl shrugged. "Because I'm sweet," was all she said. "Not to mention incredibly lovely in a shiny, glittery, soft, pink sort of manner—"

"That's enough," I said, waving the pennyroyal pouch threateningly. Pearl squeaked and clapped her little hands tightly over her mouth. I grinned and, carefully pushing the small pile of pins out of harm's way, edged towards her, wrapping her up in my arms.

"Are we really never going to see each other again?" I asked her quietly even as I buried my face in her hair.

Before Pearl could answer, Teresa came galloping back to ruin the moment, holding a screeching calico cat tightly in her arms attempting to bite at her fingers, therefore introducing Pearl and I to the final half of the pixie-proof procedure:

_**2.** Disguise all fraternizations concerning elves as routine bouts of fortune-telling._

"So!" she boomed in a loud and obnoxious manner. "You wish to see your future, Susan the Happy Trotting Elflike But Tediously _Normal Human Being_ With Abnormally Large Breasts?"

My automatic reaction was to pull my bodice up as high as it would go. "Actually, my name is Sierra," I told her grumpily.

"Ooh, what a good idea!" Teresa stage-whispered, pausing to coquettishly giggle as Flavio waved at her. "A false name! Why didn't I think of that?"

Pearl rubbed her silky head against my chin as a way of silently assuring me everything will be all right.

"Ah, I see you wish to know what role **love** plays in your future, like any other happy-trotting-elflike-but-tediously-_normal-human-being_-with-abnormally-large-breasts your age would," Teresa continued in that embarrassingly thunderous voice of hers. And then she unceremoniously sat down, tucked the frantically wriggling and mewling cat under one arm, and grabbed my wrist with such a force that for a moment I feared my arm had popped out of its socket. She proceeded to study my hand frantically, her fingers tracing the smooth, unlined skin—which soon appeared to cause a problem.

"You've no lines!" she wailed. "No lines at all! No life line, no heart line, no brain line, no beauty line, no kindness line, no virginity line, no vanity line—_none at all!_" And she flung my hand away in horror, staring at me in unsuppressed terror. "Why, it is as if you are—you are—" she stuttered before pointing a finger at me accusingly. "Well, you are either an unnatural being from another world, or time, or both, an estranged French aristocrat, or, worst of all—" She paused for dramatic effect. "_A tax collector._"

I just stared at her, and I defy any other woman to do more. "What do _any_ of those things have in common?"

The woman rolled her beautiful brown eyes in exasperation. "They're all dead inside, of course," Teresa said, slowly and patiently. "Hence the unlined hands. Like yours!" she screeched, pointing a long finger accusingly at me.

And then, suddenly: "Oh God: Jack!"

"_What?_" I asked, but Pearl, who was looking contentedly over my shoulder, released a squeal of delight, and wriggled out of my arms to pounce upon her father.

"You bastard!" Teresa yelled, leaping to her feet and hurling herself towards the pirate. I scurried out of the way as fast as I could, staring in morbid fascination as Teresa slapped him viciously, causing Pearl to tighten her grip on her father's leg with a squeak, violently grabbed his face in both hands, kissed him passionately, drew back, and rather impolitely slapped the other cheek. Jack winched, opening his mouth and making certain that his jaw was still in working order, but otherwise appeared to be completely unaffected.

"You grow more beautiful each time I see you, Teresa," he complimented her, sounding oddly sincere.

"And you grow more feminine," Teresa sniffed, not to be so easily won over. Jack ignored her, turning instead to the little girl looking dolefully up at him.

"And here she is!" Jack cried over his shoulder, reaching down to pull her up into a standing position. "The pint-sized parasite herself."

I clambered to my feet whilst Pearl squeaked indignantly, as was her birthright, and looked to see a sombrely-dressed man older than Jack by at least a decade with watery blue eyes and a perfectly groomed wig covered by a modest tricorn hat. Holding his hand was a little girl about Pearl's age—well, she was Pearl's height, in any case—with wispy brown hair modestly secured by a white cap peering curiously up at the child.

"She's not pint-sized, sir…" the other child said in wonder. "You couldn't fit _her_ into a bottle." The adorable comment caused me to look at the girl with interest, noting how her dress, though the same style as Pearl's, was a slightly lighter shade of blue. And then I looked at her sweet, slightly-rounded face, at her wide brown eyes and upturned nose.

"I like you," Pearl said suddenly, clinging tightly to her father's hand. "You appear to possess the intelligence of an average eight-year-old girl, and I've never met one of those before."

"You've no manners at all, have you?" Jack chided his child, who shrugged.

"I don't need manners," she sniffed. "I'm lovable just the way I am: metaphorically pint-sized and slightly indecorous."

"Mr Forrester…" the other girl squeaked, tugging insistently on the stranger's hand. "Mr Forrester, she's scaring me…"

"No need to panic, Mary," the man, Forrester, soothed, stroking her hand. He grinned crookedly down at the pirate's daughter, his face exuding warmth. "So," he said to her, "you must be little Pearl, then."

"That's right," she confirmed, bouncing happily on the balls of her feet. "Are you Mr Forrester?"

"I am," he said to her.

"The same Mr Forrester that will be looking after me for Papa?"

"That's right."

Pearl released Jack's hand and reached up for Mr Forrester's. "Before you take me into your care," she began superciliously, "I think it fair to warn you that I've the intellect of a fifty-six-year-old genius, the pout of a kicked puppy, and the short, destructive temper of a stampeding rhinoceros. You do _not_ want to get on little Pearl's bad side."

"Perhaps you should take her and Mary for a walk," Jack said to his curiously law-abiding friend, who was looking strangely amused and not at all surprised at Pearl's words. "Allow them to form a lasting life-long bond of friendship. Or something along those lines." He glanced at me then, and on seeing the expression on my face, swiftly added, "Bring her back in twenty minutes; I don't think any of us are ready to bid Pearl goodbye yet."

"Perhaps that would be best," Forrester agreed, with a sidelong glance at me that told me the captain had informed the gentleman in some detail of our twisted relationships.

"I'll stay here," Jack added, moving to stand beside me, an arm slung casually around my neck.

"You're in love with Si-Si!" Pearl burst out singing, gleefully, whilst Teresa merely choked at the intimate action. "You're in love with Papa! You're in love with—"

"_Pearl,_" Jack and I both said as one. She wilted and allowed herself to be led away into the town, but I saw a knowing smirk in her eyes as she docilely left.

"Keep yourself away from her!" Teresa said as Pearl skipped merrily down the garden path, attempting to pry Jack's arm away from me. "Her hands have no lines of any kind! She's the walking dead, Jack! _The walking dead!_ Only with—"

"Abnormally large breasts," Jack completed for her. "I'm not deaf, you know." He gave me a quick peck on the cheek, choosing to ignore his old flame, who screeched in horror.

"But Jack, if you were here all of this time, then surely you must know that she's no lines on her hands; _none_ whatsoever!"

"So I heard," Jack said patiently. "But I also _saw_ that you were attempting to read the back of her hand as opposed to her palm."

There was a very embarrassed pause broken only by Teresa's nervous cackling. I took the opportunity to slip out of the pirate's grip, picking up the voodoo doll Pearl had left behind.

"I assume Cate doesn't know you're here with me?" I asked as I tidied its hair.

"Last time I saw Cate, she was attempting to hang Father Dickinson and threatening to rip out every deckhand's testicles," Jack told me nonchalantly. "I doubt she's even noticed I've gone."

I frowned; I knew that Cate was a bitch, but I hadn't expected her to be a cleric-hanging, testicle-ripping sadistic maniac as well. "Why?" I asked of him.

"I asked her the very same question, and she replied that she was doing such things because she was my wife, and…" Jack trailed off, knitting his eyebrows together. "That's really about it, actually," he concluded mysteriously, smirking knowingly at me from the corner of his eye. I frowned and decided to ignore his omniscient attitude.

"But I thought you said that you weren't—"

"We were forced against our wills by a mad, mop-wielding cleric who announced our nuptials to every hand on deck this very morning," Jack interrupted. "She's trying to convince them all before any sailor's set foot on shore that we are _not_ bound for all eternity in holy matrimony, in spite of what certain mop-wielding clerics might say."

"Aren't you offended?" I asked. He cocked his head to the side and proceeded to look adorably quizzical. "It seems as if she really doesn't want to be married to you."

"Infinitely better than the alternative," Jack shot back, his hand casually reaching up to block Teresa's third slap. "But I don't find it at all insulting, considering how I know for a fact she's got her eye on somebody else…" That insolent, knowing glint returned to his eye, and despite my best intentions, I found myself stealing a glance at Jean-François, who was humorously beating Flavio off with a stick.

"Can't really blame her…" I muttered under my breath before realising this was probably a last-minute attempt to get me into bed.

"But she _really_ hates me though," I persisted whilst Jack held Teresa away at arm's length; I saw the two pirates together, and I honestly found it hard to believe that, even if she was more interested in another man, Cate's emotions towards Jack were completely simulated. "I mean, really, really, _really_ hates—"

"She's very good at hiding her emotions," Jack told me as Teresa attempted to scratch him. Feeling sorry for both Jack and the unstable mystic, I hurriedly stepped between the two of them, at great risk to my own health, I might add, and loudly asked Teresa if she wanted to continued with her pixie-proofing and tell me the story, as she had promised she would.

"…And I'll stop seeing Jack Sparrow," I assured her. "As a matter of fact, I won't be seeing him ever again after today."

This seemed to calm the envious Teresa; her arms dropped to her sides, and she pounced upon her cat, which had taken to rubbing itself affectionately against Jack's leg, causing the furry animal to yelp in panic.

"_This,_" she panted, holding the hissing cat aloft for all to see, "is a very unusual but highly reliable method of deducing which of two—and _only_ two—men is your true love and lifelong partner, Susan the Happy Trotting Elflike But Tediously _Normal Human Being_ With Abnormally Large Breasts."

"Must you always shout that part so loudly?" I asked her. Her only response was to thrust the cat into my face, and I ducked with a shriek as it attempted to swipe its claws at me. Jack gallantly pulled me out of harm's way, and I proceeded to cling tightly to his arm whilst the disgruntled feline continued to spit and attack the impassive Teresa.

"Why can't you just tell me what I want to know?" I asked her from behind Jack's shoulder. "The whole love spell thing?"

Jack's hair accidentally whipped my face as he turned to look at me. "Love spell?" he enquired quizzically. "You want her to cast a love spell? What for?"

I rolled my eyes. "I don't want her to cast a spell, love or otherwise, for me," I said with a reassuring pat, and the dread in Jack's brown eyes dimmed a little. "She told me she cast a love spell which… Well, it caught my attention, in any case."

Jack looked thoroughly unconvinced, and awkwardly jerked his arm out of my grip. I stepped away from him and cautiously inched closer to Teresa and her hellish cat.

"Is telling me my fortune in an extremely loud and public manner the only way to throw your pixies off of the scent?" I asked her tiredly.

"Aye, that it be," she said, reverting to her odd accent.

"'Yes it is!'" Jack corrected, clearly peeved. "Not 'That it be.'"

"Well at least I don't walk like a drunken whore," the woman snapped back.

"I don't—"

"You've no excuse for walking like a drunken whore," she continued imperviously. Jack gave me a sidelong glace, his face darkening when he saw I made absolutely no attempt to correct her.

"She does have a point, though…" I told him half apologetically. "And you really don't have a reasonable excuse—"

"I have a _bloody_ good excuse!" Jack snapped at the both of us, clearly. "Will you stop insulting my masculinity if I told you that I _am_ a drunken whore?" He paused, brow furrowed, and proceeded to look extremely confused. I ignored him and frantically waved my hand in a desperate attempt of regaining Teresa's attention.

"You have to tell me my fortune now," I said to her. "And then you have to tell me that story of the girl you created."

Teresa nodded her dark head sagely, baring her white teeth in an animalistic snarl at Jack, who hissed back. "Take the cat," she intoned dramatically, and I hesitantly did so, surprised to see the animal instantly calm down; apparently it loathed only Teresa.

"Alright, what do I do now?" I said to her, looking at the cat in mild distrust.

"You must give it time to infuse itself with your mysterious exclusive self that is not your soul, Susan the Happy Trotting Elflike But Tediously _Normal Human Being_ With Abnormally Large Breasts," she commanded sagely.

I wrinkled my nose. "You mean my aura?" I asked her, and she shrugged.

"Whatever metaphorically floats your nautical sailing device," she replied casually.

"You mean boat?"

"Oh, will you be quiet!" she snapped, rubbing her dark hands together and glaring at me in distrust. "How can you possibly expect the furry, four-legged domesticated animal that is not a dog to get to know you as a person if you _talk_?"

"And by that I assume you mean cat," I retorted indifferently, causing her to throw her hands up in anger and shriek.

"I love watching women fight over me," Jack commented from somewhere in the background.

"Oh, you're still here?" Teresa asked, somewhat disgruntled. She pointed accusingly at me. "Stay there," she commanded. "And whatever you do, don't let go of my domesticated animal." And she stormed unenthusiastically back into the hut.

I looked at Jack, absentmindedly stroking the cat, who was purring contentedly. "Did you really used to sleep with this woman?" I asked in disbelief.

Jack's eyebrows touched the bottom of his red headscarf. "Whoever said I stopped?" he grinned.

I pulled a face and went back to cooing over the cat, tickling his ears affectionately. Teresa soon returned amidst much clattering, shushing her adopted mother with a wave of her hand whilst the other held a round, furry ball as far away from her body as was humanly possible.

"To seal our pixie charm," she told us both brazenly, "we must now offer a sacrifice of this coconut. That means you," she added, and threw the coconut at Jack's head. Jack's eyes widened, and he ducked, allowing the coconut to fly pass him and land with a sickening crash on the fertile earth, and I watched in amazement as the white milk of the fruit spill through the cracked shell and onto the grass.

"Right…" I said uncertainly. "Um… does that count as a sacrifice?"

She shrugged. "It'll do," she said dismissively. "I doubt it can perform a country jig in _that_ sort of state. Now then, give me the cat." I handed the creature back to the woman, and the feline instantly began to struggle once more. She held the cat proudly in front of her.

"Do you see this cat?" she asked, and I confirmed that I did. "Now tell me the names of two gentlemen you hold in high regard and affection."

I glanced at Jack, who was smirking like a happy drunken clown once more, and sighed.

"Jack Sparrow. Of course," I said tiredly. "And… and, um… Oh God, is this _really_ necessary?"

"Oh yes," Teresa confirmed, nodding her dark head vigorously. "We have to throw the pixies off of the scent, otherwise the sacrificed coconut will dance in my nightmares forever more." She shook the cat encouragingly, and it yelped in disapproval. "So, go on; who else is on your mind?"

"Well, no one else could possibly be on her—"

"Stephen Verne," I told her confidently, and Jack was immediately silenced at how quickly I was able to come up with another name. I hesitated for a moment, thinking that perhaps I should change my choice, but decided against it. "Yes, Stephen Verne."

"And can you give me a description of your relationship with these two men, for the Gods' sake?" Teresa asked. "I mean, yes, I know that most people tend to believe that the Gods are all-powerful and all-knowing, but you have to bear in mind that they're only human, just like the rest of us."

I decided it would be impolite to point out the contradiction in these terms. "Well, Jack Sparrow picked me up in a brothel a few months back after I befriended his precocious daughter—I might certain if you can really call that a relationship in the traditional sense. And Stephen Verne is—actually, _was_ the teenaged boy I'd pledged my virginity to."

Jack started to choke at this, and I thought I could make out a disbelieving "_What?_"

"It's true," I assured him. "I spent the better part of three months planning on _exactly_ where, when, and how I was going to seduce him, right down to the position of the sun."

"Oh, it wasn't that," Jack waved away. "I just find it hard to believe that you were ever a virgin, that's all."

I scowled at him. "He's one of _the_ loves of my life, actually," I said to him. "Second only to myself," And I abruptly turned back to Teresa. "Can you _please_ tell me about this love spell now?" I begged of her.

"Let me finish the anti-pixie-misleading fortune telling first," Teresa told me patronisingly, and thrust the poor cat forward once more. "Do you see this cat?" she demanded.

"_Yes,_" I replied once again, suppressing my impatient temper.

"Do you see that tree over there?" she asked, pointing somewhere behind me. I turned my head and saw what looked like a small potted palm on the edge of the hut's shadow.

"Um …Sure…"

She waved the poor screeching cat madly once more. "I am going to put this cat into the branches of that tree," she told me domineeringly.

"But it doesn't have any—"

"Don't argue with her," Jack advised me, grabbing my wrist and pulling me back. Teresa marched the eight feet or so towards the pot, and unceremoniously placed the cat on one of the slim green leaves; it dug its claws into the delicate vegetation and slid comically down the entire length of the leaf to land with a disgruntled yowl as it hit the soil before curling protectively around the stem of the plant.

"Susan the Happy Trotting Elflike But Tediously _Normal Human Being_ With Abnormally Large Breasts," Teresa addressed me, standing a safe distance away from the mad voodoo practitioner and fighting the urge to cower behind Jack's shoulder, "if this cat stays in the tree until after you leave this temple of mystic worship," I glanced at the crumbling shack behind me in disapproval, "you will find yourself spending a reasonable amount of time at the side of Jack Sparrow. _However,_ if this cat falls out of the branches of this tree and _dies_ before you leave this temple of holy worship, you will find yourself spending all of eternity with this Stephen Verne character. Do you understand?"

I stared at the cat curled around the potted plant. "You're nuts," I said at last. "Far nuttier than the dancing coconuts, and that's saying something."

"Exactly _who_ is Stephen Verne?" Jack demanded.

"A handsome, _well-endowed_, wealthy, _well-endowed_, successful, and _well-endowed_ lawyer with questionable business associates, and the very first of love of Susan's," Teresa replied, clearly attempting to distress poor Jack, but in actuality, Stephen Verne was the by-product of a crack whore and her pimp when I knew him. She got the 'well-endowed' part right though.

I watched Jack as his face contorted in discomfort at Teresa's words, and then, after deciding that he did believe his insane ex, abruptly rounded on me. "You've never mentioned this Stephen Verne before," he accused, clearly outraged before his bravado faded and he added, somewhat fearfully, "Exactly _how_ well-endowed?"

I rolled my eyes and placed my hands on his shoulder. "Size doesn't matter," I assured him—which, as any woman who's had half the range of sexual partners as I had, would know that this was a complete lie.

"How endowed?" Jack demanded childishly.

"Oh, for God's sake, why do you even care—"

"How many inches?"

I closed my eyes and wrapped my arms about his neck, kissing his cheek reassuringly and causing Teresa to hyperventilate. Jack was an odd creature; distant, elusive, unavailable and pompous one day, clingy, affectionate, and uncharacteristically insecure the next. I think it was this lacking confidence, so very different from Jack's usual swaggering arrogance, was what had really won me over at that particular moment. (Which probably meant that Jack was deliberately playing the part of a lost little boy to regain my affections, but I didn't much care.)

"_No_," I whispered into his ear. "No, I refuse to tell you the exact measurements, and not just because I don't know; I may be a whore, but I was raised a lady, and I will tell you now that any lady who has been to bed with any man—_any_ man, not just Steve Verne, who may or may not be above average—would know better than to blow his trumpet."

Jack whimpered apprehensively. "That well-endowed?" he persisted, and I pulled away, rolling my eyes. "Do you realise how insulting this is?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well," he said, gesturing wildly, "you were more than happy to blow _my_—" I kissed him to stop the self-doubting pirate from talking, and earned a wail of disapproval from Teresa.

"I don't understand you at all," I said to him, pulling away a few inches. "You're playing a strange game, Jack Sparrow, and I'm at a great disadvantage as I know nothing about the rules." Teresa started to speak at this point, but I told her to shut up or I would place an elfish curse upon her and the pixies. "Why are you still here, anyway?"

"Well, I can leave now, if you'd rather," Jack informed me, pulling himself away, but I grabbed his arm in panic.

"No!" I blurted out before I could stop myself, and Teresa yelped "Traitor!"

"Well, you clearly would rather I wasn't here…" Jack told me indifferently, but I clung tightly on.

"I haven't… I haven't had _it_ yet," I told him in what I hoped was a calm voice. Jack just looked impatiently at me, and I knew he was waiting for me to continue. "Oh, Jack, _please_…" I implored him. "It's probably entirely your fault that I have to go through with it in the first place!"

Jack raised an eyebrow at this. "'Probably entirely my fault?'" he repeated sceptically.

"_Jack!_" I snapped. "Don't make me say it!"

"Alright!" Jack agreed, putting his arm around my shoulders before I had an emotional breakdown. "Alright alright alright, I'll stay with you," Jack promised me as he pulled me closer, and I heard Teresa burst into tears as I buried my face in his shoulder.

"Thank you," I murmured into his coat, ignoring Teresa's howling as I fingered his lapel. "Listen, Jack…" I began. "I was just talking to Erin, and she, um…" I inhaled deeply to steady myself before continuing, knowing full well that what I would next say would raise his suspicions—if he believed me, that is. "Well, she mentioned something about Teresa here placing a sort of curse on you, and I know it's completely ridiculous and farfetched, but—"

"Christ…" Jack groaned, sounding oddly exasperated. "Which one?"

I snapped my head up to look at him. "She's placed more than one curse on you?" I asked him disbelievingly, and he nodded.

"Oh yes, and she always sends me letters and extremely detailed diagrams for every one," he confirmed. "I have no less that a hundred and thirteen hexes placed upon my person by this one single woman which I've chosen to ignore, and nothing's happened to me so far, so you needn't fear for me, love."

I looked unconvinced, and Jack sighed, plucking the voodoo doll, which I was still carrying, from my fingers. "See this?" he asked me, and I nodded. "This is the very first hex she ever cast over me. Which reminds me…" he trailed off, looking at Teresa with a slightly mischievous glint in his eye. "I've always been meaning to ask you… is this anatomically correct?"

There was a pause during which the pirate and the pagan looked at one another.

"It _was_," Teresa sniffed, and Jack grimaced, handing the doll back to me as though sullied.

"This was a very unusual one, though," I persisted, not to be so easily deterred whilst all the while silently praying that Jack wouldn't become suspicious of my interest. "Really, really specific. And it wasn't really a curse, it was more of a love—"

"Is this the one about some specifically-designed woman from somewhere in the future?" Jack interrupted, and I stopped short, eyes widened.

"You know about this?" I asked, stunned, and Jack shrugged.

"'Course I do; 'twas the nicest one that Teresa ever did for me, and even then it apparently ends with me beheaded and hanging from my testicles outside of a Turkish prison," Jack told me offhandedly, apparently far more interested in the lint on my shoulder he was brushing off.

"…How is that anything to do with a love spell?"

Jack paused, brow furrowed in thought. "I don't actually know," he confessed, looking at me with something vaguely resembling suspicion, and I crossed my fingers behind my back, silently praying he wouldn't figure me out. I wanted him to continue believing I was a native of this century; who knows how he'll react if he knew who I really was?

"Teresa," he addressed, turning towards the sobbing woman. "Exactly what differentiates this curse from any of the others you've placed upon me?"

* * *

"_Yes_, Sierra," Janelle was saying in the present day as she made a sandwich, phone cradled safely between her cheek and shoulder. "I'm fine, and so is Johnnie, I swear. We're both safe and happy and great. Now, how about this curse? You never told me about this before, and yet, here's the email. With the curse. What is that all about? I mean, really, why can't you get it out?"

Sierra's answer were mumbled and muffled over the phone, but Janelle was able to make out the key words. "Your mother?" the American asked, pushing a strand of red hair out of her eyes. "What does she have to do with any of this?" She dropped the knife into the sink and carefully picked up the plate, an action which made the phone slip ever so slightly.

"You want to protect her?" Janelle asked in shock; she knew full well that mother and daughter had never been close. "God Sierra, what did she do?"

Sierra attempted to change the subject back to Janelle's Johnnie without success.

"Your mother," the redhead repeated firmly. "And this curse. In the words of _Grease_, tell me more." Sierra said something that made Janelle frown. "No, I don't _like_ that film; it's against everything I believe in. Well, _everyone_ knows the songs—no! No no no no no, stop it! How _dare_ you use my hatred of popular culture to distract me! Your mother, please," and although Sierra was silent, Janelle could have sworn that she heard the brunette wilting. And then she reluctantly began to speak.

"She _sold_ you to Teresa?" Janelle repeated incredulously.

"Yes…" came the muffled reply.

"For what? Yes, you _do_ have to tell me."

Again, Sierra attempted to divert the conversation in an entirely different direction, and again, she failed.

"…Oh… Well, I… I suppose I could sympathise with her…" Janelle confessed, excusing herself to call loudly to Johnnie that his sandwich was on the table before returning to her conversation with Sierra.

"But even so, to allow your own child to be taken under the wing of some eighteenth-century, pixie-fearing maniac is just… Oh, so there's more than just the fact that your mother craved wealth and security and—What?" Janelle exclaimed before laughing as she meandered back into her kitchen. "Are you telling me that your mother was actually the daughter of a Neapolitan goat herder?"

"It's not funny," Sierra snapped back. "But apparently my mother's family isn't her real family—well, they are, biologically, but… This is so difficult to explain." She paused, took a deep breath, and continued. "Apparently her real family were…" she hesitated.

"Were what?" Janelle demanded childishly. "Besides peasant goat herders roaming the hills of Naples?"

"There was a reason why Teresa chose _me_, Janelle," Sierra was saying, her voice unsuited to the static that accompanied it. "Well, chose my mother, in any case, to carry me…"

"I still can't believe that your mother's family were actually goat herders, though," Janelle said gleefully, pouring water into a glass. "I've met your mother and her family, and they're all such snobs, so to hear that they were actually stereotypical Italian peasants is just—Yes, I will shut up now."

"And they weren't _really_ goat herders," Sierra said sullenly. "They weren't even Neapolitan natives—They were actually from Calabria."

"So what were they doing herding goats in Naples?" Janelle demanded, and Sierra patiently answered.

"Hiding? From who? From what? The law?" she joked as she wandered back into the lounge where a little boy with thick brown hair was nibbling contentedly on his sandwich.

"_Yes_," Sierra replied evenly, and Janelle's face fell whilst her stomach twisted.

"Um… Would you please care to explain?" Her brow furrowed at Sierra's one word answer. "The what? What is that, 'Ndrangheta?"

Johnnie jumped and dropped his sandwich at the sound of smashing glass, and turned to see Auntie Janelle standing in the doorway, a phone pressed firmly to her ear, an expression, and shards of broken glass at her, the water spreading lazily across the floorboards.

"No…" she breathed into the phone, oblivious to the four-year-old child staring at her. "Sierra… Are you trying to tell me that your mother was a part of the Mafia?"

**-x!x-**

**AN:** The curse was meant to have been fully explained in this chapter, but Teresa's lengthy, paranoid pixie-proofing meant that I had to cut Sierra and Janelle's phone conversation short.


	48. An Abbreviated History Lesson

**AN:** No Jack, Pearl, Teresa, or even coconuts in this chapter; just a very lengthy, explanatory phone call.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Seven:** An Abbreviated History Lesson_

"Calm down," Sierra snapped at the hyperventilating Janelle.

"But—But—But you're telling me that your grandfather was a Mafia Don!"

"Oh, God…" Sierra groaned. "Sweetie, please don't tell me that you actually take _The Godfather_ seriously."

"Of course I don't!" Janelle snapped. "But the Mafia—Well, that's just—"

"It is _not_ the Mafia," Sierra stated firmly. "I said it was a criminal organisation—"

"Based in Italy," Janelle interjected.

"Not every criminal organisation in Italy is a part of the Mafia," Sierra said patiently. "This isn't anything like the Mafia Hollywood's given out; this is small-time crime in rural areas of Italy—hardly news-worthy. And besides, my grandfather was involved in the more legitimate side."

"The legitimate side?" Janelle squealed in disbelief, earning a very worried glance from Johnnie. "Organised crime has a legitimate side?"

"Construction and supermarkets. Or so Erin told me."

A pause. "…Supermarkets?"

"And real estate—and the occasional hotel or restaurant. My grandfather's associates took on the drugs and the smuggling and political bribery and prostitution."

"Why is it that whenever I talk to you, the subject of prostitutes always comes up?" Janelle asked, disgruntled.

Sierra chose to ignore this comment. "My father was in charge of the money laundering aspects," she continued. "That is almost legitimate—and let me tell you that the 'Ndrangheta are nothing like the Mafia; they're a lot more discreet and loyal to one another. And they don't spend as much energy on murders and assassinations. They're nowhere near as trigger-happy."

"Are you trying to tell me that _your_ criminal organisation upholds a code of honour? A sort of moral guideline?"

"Well, Jack had his Pirate's Code," Sierra pointed out. "And yes, they did have a sort of code of honour; the most important being that all women, children, and teenagers are left out of the 'business.' Unless they've been kidnapped, which I think is completely justified."

Janelle closed her grey eyes in exasperation. "We are _not_ having this conversation," she pleaded.

"Listen, you wanted to know about the curse, alright? I'm just providing you with the background information."

"Which involves the Mafia," Janelle accused, and Sierra groaned in exasperation. "I'm sorry, but I still fail to see how this has anything to do with pirates or—or voodoo."

"It does actually have some links to piracy," Sierra said, and Janelle's eyebrows rose.

"How?"

"Well, um… Apparently the 'Ndrangheta—and indeed, your bloody Mafia—have roots in the Garduna, which is a Spanish criminal society that originated sometime in the Middle Ages—"

"If they're Spanish, then how did they end up in Italy?" Janelle demanded like a petulant child.

"Well, you do know that in the Middle Ages and Renaissance—mostly Renaissance, actually—there was a large amount of land in southern Italy conquered and controlled by various Spanish families, don't you?"

"Yes; I think the King of Naples was from the House of Aragon, wasn't he?"

"I don't know; probably. But knowing that southern Italy was controlled by Spanish royalty, and considering how the Garduna were probably one of the first influential criminal organisations in Renaissance Europe, how do you _think_ they found themselves in Italy? And haven't you ever wondered why the four major crime organisations of Italy are in the south?"

Janelle was silent, watching as little Johnnie raced a Ferrari and a Land Rover across the coffee tabletop. (The Land Rover won, which just goes to show that high price doesn't necessarily mean high quality. On the other hand, it could also show that Johnnie gave the Land Rover an extra boost.)

"I never really considered that…" she said at last. "I mean, I don't usually spend my energies contemplating the history of organised crime and prostitution."

"Now you're the one bringing it up," Sierra observed triumphantly. "Anyway, the Garduna were basically involved in petty crimes for a bit, and then Columbus stumbled onto a continent which he presumed was India. It turned out that this impersonating India was rich in gold, and that's how my Jack's occupation as we know it came into being. And obviously the Garduna, being what it was, saw a… well, a sort of business opportunity."

"Sierra… Are you saying that your ancestors were involved in organised piracy?"

"Not my _ancestors_, per se, but rather the founding fathers. There's this folksong which my mother sang to my brother and sister when they were kids, and it mentions a shipwreck, which apparently pays homage to the Garduna's association with piracy."

"…And the curse?" Janelle demanded.

"Well, Erin told me, after the abortion, when we were alone, that Teresa and Jack were lovers, but he left her for her sister, Sarah—although when I asked Jack about this, he told me that Sarah and Teresa were identical twins, and he just got confused and slept with the wrong one—anyway, Teresa overreacted to this, as she tended to, and wouldn't allow Jack to explain himself, so he stayed with Sarah. I'm not really certain what happened, exactly, but somehow Sarah ended up killed, and it was somehow Jack's fault, and that just sent Teresa over the edge. She was apparently so overcome with grief—and a fair amount of guilt—that she shut herself off from the rest of the world. Of course, she couldn't just lock herself up in her room—she didn't _have_ her own room—so she… Well, she meditated and went into trances. And… And in her trances, she… She found herself in other places and…"

"And other times," Janelle filled in.

"Yeah. And in one of these trances, she encountered a fourteen-year-old girl in Naples, who was all battered and bruised and crying her eyes out."

"Your mother?" Janelle hazarded a guess.

"Yes, my mother," Sierra confirmed, sounding suddenly tired. "When she was about ten, my grandfather was arrested, prosecuted and convicted alongside his friends. He was able to escape though, and he took his wife and daughter and they all ran off to Naples and lived as—"

"Neapolitan goat herders!"

"Oh, shut up; you sound exactly like Teresa now. Yes, you're right, but it's nothing to get excited about—especially when you consider that my grandfather began to… to get physically abusive towards his immediate family."

Janelle was too shocked to respond to this.

"And when Teresa stumbled upon my mother as an injured, heartbroken child, her heart went out to her, and she swore to do whatever it took to help this little girl. But my mother, who even then knew how to make the best of all situations, asked for far too much—asked for a completely different life, in a completely different part of the country."

"Ask?"

"Well, not so much _ask_ as _pray_ for it. She just happened to make the mistake of praying to her mother's saint, Teresa of Ávila—"

"Uh oh."

"Well, to be fair she had no idea that a deranged Druid voodoo mystic was eavesdropping on her prayers, did she? And when Teresa answered as a Catholic saint, well—Well, my mother was brought up in an extremely religious family, and she was starting to hear voices, and she was very young and completely desperate. Carrying the child of a saint probably appealed to her as a modern interpretation of Mary carrying Jesus Christ."

"But you're _not_ Teresa's child… Are you?"

"I'm no one's child, Janelle," Sierra murmured softly. "I'm apparently a non-scientific clone of a French aristocrat, raised in a controlled environment so that—" And here she stopped, clearly uncertain of whether she should continue.

"Go on…" Janelle egged her.

"Well, um, the… The only reason that the love spell, the curse, was one-sided was… Well, it… I…" Sierra stuttered, sounding uncharacteristically self-conscious.

"Spit it out," Janelle commanded. "Not you!" she added hurriedly to Johnnie, who had just taken another bite of his sandwich and was looking somewhat bewildered at the order.

"Apparently, I'm Jack's perfect woman," Sierra announced in a rush.

"You're _what?_"

"But I'm not, I'm what _Teresa_ thinks is Jack's perfect woman, which isn't necessarily the same thing—"

"Sierra, I can barely understand a word you're saying; slow down."

"Well, the… curse is such that—if Jack did fall in love with me, he'd lose me to another man—or woman, depending on which would hurt his ego more… And if he didn't… He'll die." And she finished with a slow, shuddering breath, attempting to force back her tears.

"But… But Jack _did_ die, didn't he?"

"Yes…" Sierra answered, sounding as though her heart was shattering all over again.

"Oh, sweetie—"

"That's why Teresa chose my mother, you know." Sierra continued, hurriedly brushing off her friend's pity. "Because of the fact that, in a really distant sort of a way, I was the descendent of pirates and, in a more direct way, of organised crime. Apparently, those are both traits that could be inherited, and in Teresa's little world, I was supposed to be able to complement Jack's pirate side as well as his… human side. Which is a ridiculous preconception, really."

"It's all so cruel, though…" Janelle sympathised whilst Sierra regained control of her emotions. "The curse, that is. I mean, either way, both you and Jack end up getting hurt."

"I don't blame Teresa, though; she really is nothing more than a child with these fantastically uncontrollable powers. And my mother really didn't have much of a choice; she wanted a good, happy family life, and she had no idea that this was what she'll be submitting me to. If there's anyone I do blame, it's my dead grandfather."

"Wow…" Janelle said at last, deciding to shelve her commiseration for her friend's luckless existence; clearly, Sierra was unwilling to accept her condolences. Deciding that it would be best to return the conversation to a more light-hearted topic, she casually mused. "So what Hollywood says is true; the Mafia really are everywhere."

Sierra closed her eyes and sighed in exasperation, secretly glad that her soul-exposing confession was now over. "D'you know, when I originally dialled this number, I did so with every intention of speaking to a person of intelligence, of education, someone possessing a somewhat high degree and capability of understanding.

"Put Johnnie on the phone."

Janelle narrowed her grey eyes and reluctantly turned to see Johnnie staring curiously up at her. "Sweetie," she said, bending down so that their faces were level, "do you know who's on the phone?"

Johnnie nodded his dark head several times in rapid succession, clearly excited.

"And do you know that she wants to talk to you?"

Again, that swift, sweet little nod.

"And do you know," she continued, "that I've bought a new tub of ice cream just today?"

Johnnie paused, confused, and slowly shook his head.

"I don't think I have to tell you what will happen to that ice cream if you _do_ take this phone call, do I?"

Reluctantly, Johnnie nodded.

"So you have two choices: you can either listen to Mommy, and—"

But Johnnie had already snatched the phone from the redhead's grip and, pressing it determinedly to his ear, hurriedly toddled off as fast his short little legs could carry him, leaving a flabbergasted Janelle to stare after him in shock.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** The 'Ndrangheta is a real crime organisation who were apparently established in the 19th century, after Italy was united, although there had been another organisation in the seventeenth century before that. It isn't known whether they _are_ descended from the Garduna, who _were_ a Spanish secret society that allegedly had connections with piracy, but it is a possibility. And if you don't believe that I meant to bring in the 'Ndrangheta/Mafia all along, I invite you to look back at the chapter entitled "A Slight Misunderstanding." There is a brief, somewhat subtle reference to the Mafia by name about a third of the way through.


	49. Bye, Bye Baby

**AN:** To understand this chapter, you need to go back to the chapter before last, as this is where it's left off, so for now just forget about the entire phone conversation, forget about Sierra's criminal family… within reasonable limits, just forget it all.

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Eight:** Bye, Bye Baby_

Teresa was still unforthcoming in regards to the curse she placed upon Jack; Jack, on the other hand, was a _little_ more cooperative, but it was clear to me that he viewed my interest with great suspicion.

"Are you jealous?" he asked, slightly casually.

"Yes, but nowhere near half as jealous as you are about certain aspects of Steve Verne's anatomy," I snapped right back, my distemper all the more soured by impatience and irritation.

Jack's superior smirk faded from his face at the mention of my ex-lover's name, and as if to confirm his thoughts, Teresa cackled from somewhere in the background, "_Spectacularly_ well-endowed!"

"Oh, shut up!" I snapped at her, placing my hands on my hips and stamping my foot without thinking. "Erin!" I called to the woman within the hut, ignoring how Jack and Teresa were now bickering over the size of Steve Verne, "Erin, is it ready yet?"

There was a clamouring, and then the redhead popped out, her face red and glistening with sweat. "Not quite!" she replied. "There was a tiny spill, nothing too serious though, I assure you. I'm just boiling some more water, so if you can just—"

And she ducked back in without offering further explanation. Now feeling rather peeved about the entire affair, I crossed my arms across my stomach and turned to see Flavio cooing over a slight bump on Jean's forehead. Remembering suddenly that Jack had mentioned that these two particular individuals had wanted to see me, I decided that, seeing how I was to wait a little while longer in any case, it would be best if I was to amuse myself with some French conversation. With a final glance at Jack and Teresa, who were both waving their arms about rather dramatically—_God_, they went so well together!—I picked up my skirts and hurriedly scampered over to them.

"_Bonjour,_" I said to them both as I sat down beside them. "_I was told that you wished to see me?_" I addressed Jean, who looked very much as if he had a headache and its name was Flavio.

"_Yes,_" he told me, sitting up a little bit on Flavio's lap and slapping the man's caring hands away, eliciting a sniffle of hurt from the lavender-clad transvestite. "_I've been told by certain sources,_" with a meaningful glance at Flavio, who was sniffling over his slapped fingers rather pathetically, "_that you will no longer accompany Captain Sparrow on his voyages._"

"_Yes, he is going to drop me off here all by myself,_" I confirmed. "_What of it?_"

Jean looked behind me, where I knew both Jack and Teresa were throwing extremely hissy fits, and confided that he too wished to leave the man's crew. "_But not empty-handed,_" he added as I listened attentively. "_If I was forced to spend a month and a half working under that fool's command, I expect a profit._"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "_A profit?_" I asked incredulously; 'ungrateful' didn't seem to be a strong enough word. "_That 'fool' saved your life! And not only your life, but those of your… friends._" I looked at Flavio, who was chewing on his fingernail.

"_Why are you telling me this?_" I asked at last at Jean's uncomfortable silence. "_Are you asking me to steal for you? Because I won't; I'm not that sort of girl._"

"_No,_" Jean assured me. "_No, no, no: all I want you._"

I was silent for a moment, and Flavio randomly decided to hum _Auld Lang Syne_.

"_I… I don't know what you… I don't understand… I…_" I stammered, wincing as my English accent became more pronounced. "_What are you saying?_"

He raised an eyebrow. "_I've a proposal for you, mademoiselle._"

"_A proposal?_"

He nodded and, leaning closer, asked me, "_Have you ever heard of a woman named Évignon?_"

I frowned at this, realising that the name did somewhat sound familiar. "_Évignon?_"

"_Oui; Nicolette d'Évignon, a young aristocrat._"

Suddenly, it came back to me; that day, so long ago, when the _Pearl_ had been attacked by a pirate ship; how had Jack weaselled his way out of it? By using me as a shield… And he was able to do so, because I looked like…

"_Nicolette d'Évignon?_" I asked quietly. "The—_La… comtesse?_"

"_You know her?_"

"_Yes, but the question is how you know her,_" I challenged.

He was silent for a moment, grey eyes fixed on mine. "_I once worked for her uncle,_" he said to me. "_Many years ago. As a footman. I saw her many times._"

"_Jean…_" I said to him, almost gently. "_There's no point attempting to con her family into giving you—us—the reward money. They know she's dead._"

"_Reports can be misleading,_" Jean said to me arrogantly. "_You've no idea how greatly you resemble her—_"

"_Alright!_" I snapped at him. "_Let's assume, for the moment, that we were able to convince them that I was this Évignon woman; then what? You'll take the reward money_—"

"_You'll be left to play the part of countess—"_

"_Yes, until I'm discovered, at which point I'll be thrown out into the streets and left to starve!_" I snapped.

"_No, you won't,_" Jean assured me quietly. "_You look too much like her to ever raise any suspicions._"

I raised an eyebrow at this. "_Jean, I don't know anything about her,_" I pointed out. "_I might look like her, but if I don't act like her, then—_"

"_They'll assume that you've been living the life of a commoner for eight months,_" Jean interjected quite rudely. "_A woman can change greatly in such a long period of time._"

I was silent, staring at him whilst he gazed intently back at me. Flavio was conspicuous only by his absence, and I watched dully at the emerald blades of grass glowing in the sun.

"_We're in an English port,_" I said at last.

"_I saw a French ship,_" Jean told me at last. "_And what's more, on that ship I saw—_" And he fell silent, brow furrowed in thought. "_Christophe,_" he said at last. "_Nicolette's brother, Christophe._"

I frowned. "_Why is a French ship docking at an English port?_" I asked; Andrew had told me, back in Tortuga, that the two nations were at war. That was how he was able to obtain his Letters of Marque; that was how his career as a privateer continued to flourish; all these wars.

"_I don't pay much attention to politics,_" Jean shrugged.

"_I… can't accept this, Jean,_" I told him. "_You plan to hand me over to her brother and collect a reward, but so many things can go wrong; he'll know I'm not her!_"

"_Sierra…_" Jean said, and I started; it was the first time, in my memory, that he had ever called me by my name. "_What other choice do you have?_"

I was silent, unable to say anything to contradict him. He was right, of course; the only friends I had made were either unreliable pirates or Tortugan prostitutes, and I obviously didn't have any family. When Jack sailed away from Kingston, I would be left alone and utterly desolate, picking pockets (which I'd never done before) and walking the streets. I'd last three months, if I was lucky. And now, by some odd, miraculous twist of fate, I was being offered the life of a moneyed aristocrat. I mean, yes, of course I was a bit suspicious of it all; I knew that the nobility were snobbish and tended to keep to themselves, at least as far as marriages were concerned. I also know that there were relatively few aristocrats inhabiting the Caribbean, so why this Nicolette was here rather than Paris or Versailles was a query that ate at my mind, but I pushed all doubts aside as another thought struck me:

"_Will I be able to take Pearl with me?_" I asked Jean suddenly, and he furrowed his eyebrows. "_The little girl,_" I explained, before adding hesitantly, "_My little girl._"

"…_Well, I suppose adopting a child could be seen as an act of charity, but—_"

"_I absolutely insist on taking her with me,_" I told him stubbornly.

"_It's not my choice to make,_" he responded, and I scowled.

"_Well, whose ever choice it is to make—_"

I was cut off the familiar pattering of little tiny feet, and then Pearl appeared suddenly in my lap, arms wrapping tightly about my neck in an affectionate hug. When she pulled away, I saw that her cheeks were flushed and beautiful from her little run, and her blue eyes were bright and glowing with excitement.

"Look!" she cried, waving her arm madly somewhere to my right. "Si-Si, look! Pearl's made a new friend!" And I turned to see, to my jaw-dropping surprise, the half-naked little boy I had spied about an hour or so earlier, whilst I was on my way to Erin and Teresa's humble abode. I stared at the little boy, who was looking nervous and confused and had wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders in an attempt to cover himself.

"Who's this?" I heard Jack ask as he sashayed over to us; and then, looking pointedly at Pearl, "What did you do to them?" For neither Mr. Forrester nor Mary were in sight.

Pearl widened her big blue eyes and attempted to look innocent. "I don't know what you're talking about," she told him sweetly.

"Oh, I think you do," Jack countered, and she wilted and sank back into my arms. I barely noticed this action, however, let alone the exchange between father and child; I was still too busy staring at the dirty little boy, who was looking lost and heartbroken. My heart went out to him, as did my hand, and the child started at the gesture, looking at my fingers suspiciously.

"Hello," I said to him, my voice soft, gentle and, hopefully, soothing. "I'm Sierra. How do you do?"

He only shrank away, and I widened my smile. "I won't hurt you," I reassured him, knowing full well what affected his behaviour so greatly. Beside me, I heard Jean cursing, clearly peeved that our 'negotiations' were so untimely interrupted. "Come here," I tried again—and, slowly, so very slowly, he came towards me. He stopped six inches out of my reach though, and I met his wide, terrified brown eyes even whilst Pearl wriggled out of my grip and bounced towards her Papa.

"What's your name?" I asked of him as Pearl wrapped her arms about her father's leg.

"Daniel," he told me, his voice quiet and wary whilst I heard Pearl complaining about how she didn't enjoy being ignored by her Papa one little bit.

"Hello, Daniel," I greeted again. "How are you?"

Daniel was looking at me extremely suspiciously, and refused to answer, choosing instead to look towards Pearl pulling at her father's clothing. Knowing that it was very unlikely that I was going to get anywhere with the child, I also turned to glance at the Sparrows whilst silently wondering what was going on in Pearl's mind to have dragged this abused child back to us.

"What is it?" Jack asked irritably on noticing Pearl's continuous tugging on his faded waistcoat. "What do you want?"

Pearl responded by simply spreading her arms wide and looking imploringly up at her father with wide blue eyes. "Hug," she said simply. "Pearl wants a hug."

Jack appeared to be uncertain of her request; he glanced over his shoulder, as though to ensure that she was, in fact, addressing him, and then squatted down and wrapped his arms awkwardly about her skinny shoulders whilst she hugged him tightly back. After seven seconds or so, he released her, barely straightening before Pearl was pulling at his vest once again.

"Yes?" he enquired quizzically of his daughter. Pearl tilted her face upwards, turning a smooth white cheek towards him.

"Kiss," she asked, a little more shyly than before and all the sweeter because of it. "Pearl wants a kiss."

Jack appeared less self-conscious of this request than its predecessor, scooping the girl easily up into his arms and placing an almost affectionate kiss on her forehead before almost reluctantly setting her down once more. Pearl was on her feet for a fraction of a second before she was pulling on her father's clothing once more, and when Jack met his offspring's eyes for a third time, there was a delicate warmth in his gaze that made him appear younger than usual, which was saying quite a lot.

"Hmm?" he hummed.

Pearl's smile and voice was nothing short of saccharine. "Money," she sang. "Pearl wants some money."

Jack's hand seemed to reach inside his coat as an automatic reaction before he froze, frowning as his daughter's request sank in, and glared down at her.

"Nice try," he said, removing his still-empty hand and glaring down at the child, although he did sound vaguely impressed at her manipulative machinations.

"_Please?_" she asked, her sweet voice small and beseeching.

"What for?"

"Clothes," she said to him as though it was the most obvious answer in the world. "For Daniel," she added, waving at her new friend, who seemed to shrink back at being referred to. Jack's dark eyes, narrowed and suspicious, followed her waving hands, and I glanced back to see the little boy flinching under the pirate's searching gaze.

"Pearl…" Jack said to his daughter, somewhat gently, "I'm a pirate, not a charity worker."

"But I thought that you were a sort of nautical Robin Hood, though," Pearl said to him sweetly, wrapping her arms about his waist whilst he awkwardly patted her head. "Stealing from the rich and giving to the poor."

"I _am_ the poor."

"Exactly."

"Oh, Pearl…" Jack groaned on seeing her lifting her pouting face.

"_Please?_"

"What have I told you about simply asking for money?" Jack demanded, clearly peeved. "Where _is_ your moral sense of decency? Have I taught you nothing?"

Pearl tucked her hands behind her back, bowed her head, and scuffed her foot along the ground in shame. "If I want money…" she began slowly, "I should just go out and pick a complete stranger's purse, not _ask_ for it from a friend or parent, even if it is the easier option."

"That's right, and don't you forget it," Jack told her. "Sometimes I feel as though I've not done my duty regarding your knowledge of basic moral principles. Asking me for money," he muttered, shaking his head, clearly appalled that his daughter would do such an unnatural thing.

"I'm sorry, Papa," Pearl told him sorrowfully, and with a gentle push from her father, reluctantly released him, traipsing back to Daniel with her dark head lowered, her hands clasped penitently before her.

Satisfied at having successfully drilled into his daughter's mind a basic ethical principle, Jack turned to look at me, and said simply, "Erin's waiting."

I was silent, staring at Pearl and the young child she had so swiftly befriended, unable to believe the sight. Then I glanced back at Jack, and asked him quietly, "You will stay with me, won't you?"

"For what?" Pearl demanded petulantly, looking from one to the other. "Can I come with you? Can Daniel? _Please?_"

"I will," Jack told me.

"Can we come too?" I heard Pearl ask as I stood, brushing down my skirt and quietly murmuring to Jean that we'll continue our discussion later.

"_Keep an eye on them, won't you?_" I added to the Frenchman.

"_I'm not good with children_," he told me tetchily, and I sighed before stepping forward and taking Jack's hand.

"Si-Si?" Pearl cried out, clearly confused. I turned to see her looking up at me. "What's happening?"

"Nothing, Pearl," I assured her. "Don't worry about it."

Pearl looked unconvinced, and stepped away from the heartbreakingly vulnerable Daniel to wrap her arms about me. I hugged her back, and then, at Jack's indiscreet cough and slight tugging, reluctantly pulled away.

"I love you," I said on seeing her bewildered and panicked face; she may not know exactly what was happening, but she could sense that something was wrong. "You know that, don't you?"

"I know," she told me quietly, grabbing my hand as I was about to turn away. "I… I love you too. Mama."

Jack pulled me away from the adorable child before I could burst into tears and fling my arms about her shoulders. "Women," he muttered under his breath as he propelled me forward, pass the flirting Flavio, coquettish Teresa and impatient Anamaria, pass the poor cat curled about the potted "tree," and into the dark, musky interior of the shack, where Erin waited.

"Jack," I said, taking a few steps backwards and hovering just outside the threshold. "Can you promise me something?"

Jack looked rather impatient at my procrastination, but decided to humour me. "What is it?"

"I… I'm scared," I told him. "And… And I don't know what Erin is going to use, or what she's going to do, but… Can you please make sure that I don't see? I won't be able to go through with it if I see…"

"See what?" he snapped irritably.

"Anything," I replied vaguely. "Anything to do with it."

I must have looked utterly pitiful, for Jack's face seemed to soften, and then he stepped closer, placing a gentle kiss on my forehead. "Come inside," he said to me, his hand flicking a strand of hair over my shoulder, and I nodded, following him.

Erin was waiting for me, and I was surprised to see that, in the very centre of the room, there appeared to be a fairly large cloth—a tablecloth, I suspected, or a bed sheet—spread across the floorboards. Erin invited me to lay down, and then discreetly asked Jack if he could possibly leave. My grip on his arm tightened, and I shook my head, silently telling her that I refused to grant him permission to leave me. Erin simply nodded in understanding, told us that she required Teresa, and left the two of us alone in the stuffy, darkened room.

I moved forward, making certain to keep my eyes fixed on the white cloth, and sat down, rearranging my skirts as I did so. I heard Jack following me, felt his arms wrap about my waist and pull me close, and closed my eyes.

"I'll miss you, you know," I heard him murmur into my hair. "Just a little."

"You barely know me," I told him quietly.

"Hence a little."

We sat like that in silence for a moment, Jack lost in his indecipherable thoughts, and I lost in Jack's arms, silently wishing that I could stay like that forever.

"Aren't you a little more… upset?" I asked eventually.

"About the child?"

"About Pearl," I corrected. "And her little friend. I just can't believe that she was able to find another child who had… And so quickly, too."

"Ah. Well, it's not exactly what could be called an uncommon occurrence though, is it?"

"…I suppose not," I agreed glumly, my hands moving to rest on his. "I'm so worried about her, though. I'm scared that Forrester won't be able to give her the love and support that she needs."

"I must confess that I'm far more concerned with the… physical effects," Jack told me, and there was something about the way that he struggled to get these final words out that made me frown.

"What do you mean?" I asked him quietly.

"Well… You do know of that ludicrous belief that if a man, finding himself unwilling host to the clap or pox or any other such similar maladies, could rid himself of these most troublesome ailments by simply engaging in questionable activities with a young child, don't you?"

I sat up at this, alarmed, and turned to look at him. "Jack…" I said, feeling as though some parasitic creature was gnawing at my stomach, "are you saying… Do you really think that Pearl could have been… molested by a man who had a venereal disease?"

Jack's dark eyes were carefully masked as he looked at me. "It is a possibility," he told me carefully.

I was silent, unable, _unwilling_ to believe such a terrible thing. It was cruel enough that Pearl had been subjected to such treatment, but the chance that she could have contracted syphilis or… The mere thought alone was far too much to bare, and I was overcome with the urge to run back to the child and scoop her up into my arms.

"Don't be so rash!" Jack hissed at me as I struggled to escape from his arms. "Do you honestly wish to upset her further?"

I wilted at this, but obeyed, lowering my head whilst my shoulders shuddered with a suppressed sob.

"Oh, Pearl…" I whispered, biting my lip as I felt my eyes begin to sting. Jack's arms tightened their grip, and I felt his nose brush against my neck as he moved my hair away before kissing the now exposed skin.

The door opened at this most sensitive, most delicate of moments, and Erin entered, announcing that Teresa's jealousy was such that she refused to assist her stepmother. "But what's all this?" she asked, taking in my hunched shoulders and weeping eyes.

"It… It's nothing, really," I said to her. "Nothing to do with the… the abortion."

"Are you sure that you want to go through with this?" she asked me gently, clearly doubtful.

"Yes… I am," I told her, although even at this crucial stage, I was still uncertain of what I truly wanted.

"No, you're not." For a moment, I was uncertain of who had spoken, even though Jack was the only man in the room.

Resentfully, I looked up at him, and said, in a voice raw with pain, "Yes. I _am._"

Jack's brown eyes were dubious as he looked into my own determined blue, glittering with tears, palpable pain vivid in their very depths, yet unwaveringly resolute.

I heard Erin told me to lie back on the floorboards, and obeyed, my head resting on Jack's knee as I pulled up my skirts and spread my legs like any other whore. My eyes screwed shut the moment I felt the cool metal push against me before slipping slightly inside, and I gasped in pain even as I attempted to block out the entire experience.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** There really was a theory that a man could rid himself of venereal disease by having intercourse with a child, the younger the better; in the eighteenth century, there were records of babies in the London's New Lock Hospital, which specialised in the treatment of VD's; the belief was that the disease would transfer to the child, leaving the man cured. And for those of you who are interested, getting pregnant and giving birth was supposed to be the miracle cure for women.


	50. A Goodbye Kiss

**AN:** We see a new, emotionally-unbalanced, foul-mouthed Sierra in this one; shouting, yelling, crying… And it only gets worse…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Forty-Nine:** A Goodbye Kiss_

"Bollocks," Jack cursed suddenly, all but pushing me away from him. I gasped in a mixture of surprise and pain, my hands reaching down to push my skirts back over my knees as I stood. Erin also cried out in alarm, and drew away.

"What's wrong?" I asked him, my arms unconsciously wrapped protectively about myself.

"She stole my bloody purse!"

"_What?_"

"Pearl!" Jack snapped at me, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "She picked my pocket! That little—"

I darted forwards, clapping my hand firmly over his mouth before he could say anything that would destroy my love for him forever. "You did deserve it," I reminded him as he fell silent. "You did say she should steal money rather than ask for it."

"From _complete strangers_!" Jack exploded, pushing me away from him once more. "Not from her own father!" And his hand fell to rest on the handle of his sword before he hesitated, clearly thinking better of it. With barely a glance at either Erin or myself, he started towards the door, but I grabbed his arm, anchoring him to the spot.

"You said you'd stay with me," I pleaded as he turned his smouldering gaze upon my face. "I don't want to do this alone!"

Jack paused for a moment, silent as he attempted to decide which was more important to him: me, or his handful of coins. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said after a relatively short pause. "I've a moral lesson to teach." And without another word, he wrenched his arm out of my grip and practically pulled the door off of its hinges, slamming it behind him. I had only just repressed my tears over Pearl's unhappy fate, and to have Jack leave me so suddenly brought my emotions bubbling back to the surface. With a strangled sob, I tightened my arms about myself and sank back to the floor, my head bowed as warm tears streamed down my face.

Presently, I felt Erin's fleeting touch upon my shoulder, heard her gentle voice ask if I was alright.

"I don't know," I whispered, my trembling fingers reaching up to wipe at my eyes before turning to look at her as I pushed my hair away from my face. "I've always been a very emotional person, I'm afraid," I told her with a shaky smile, attempting to repress my sobs and somewhat succeeding. Erin's eyes were serene in their understanding, and merely looking at her allowed me to absorb some of that tranquillity.

"I just… I wanted someone to be with me," I confessed, feeling childish as I spoke. "As moral support, I suppose…"

Erin seemed to hesitate before saying quietly, "I can ask Anamaria—" she began, but I held up my hand and shook my head.

"I wanted Jack," I admitted. "He's seen me naked; Ana hasn't."

Erin shrugged nonchalantly at this. "Fair enough," she observed, "but I doubt he'll be back."

I nodded at this, and sighed as I moved back to lie on the rumpled sheet on the floor. Erin followed me, and I averted my eyes as I saw a long object flash in her hands.

"Are you alright, my dear?" she queried politely as I hiked up my skirts once more, and I quietly assured her that I was, squeezing my eyes tightly shut.

* * *

"What do you mean, it's still in there?" I asked Erin shrilly as I watched her wash the blood off her hands. "Are you saying that I've been lying there in pain for half a _fucking_ hour whilst you've been poking around with a syringe or whatever, and I'm still carrying this _fucking_ baby?" 

"You'll make such a loving mother," a voice commented, and I whirled around to see Jack leaning casually against the door, arms folded across his chest as he watched me raging at the abortionist.

"And where the fuck have _you_ been?" I turned on him, and could have sworn I heard Erin sigh in relief. "How long have you been standing there for?"

Jack opened his mouth, as though to reply, but I refused to offer him the chance to explain himself.

"The least you could have done was uphold your promise and stay with me for a few minutes, you useless ass!" I continued to rage. "It's your own fault I'm here in the first place!"

"No, it isn—" But I wouldn't allow him to protest either; my unhappiness at my hopeless situation had, in the last five minutes, transformed into a blazing tirade fuelled by anger, and at that very moment I couldn't help but hold Jack accountable for everything that had ever happened to me.

"You always seem to be _fucking_ leaving me!" I seethed. "You were willing to leave me in Tortuga; you're fucking _happy_ to leave me to rot on the streets _here_, and—"

I was cut off as his lips crushed brutally against my own, and attempted to pull away, but his arms wrapped about my waist and pulled me closer, ignoring my struggles. My hands pushed resolutely against his shoulders, determined as I was to force him away from me; he responded by forcing his tongue pass my lips, and for a moment I thought maliciously of biting him; but then I felt his fingers gently massaging my lower back, and felt myself felt myself slowly relaxing in spite of myself. Eventually, my resistance faded, and I merely stood there, unresponsive to his touch, but unable to pull away.

When he drew away, I found myself leaning into his arms, head resting on his shoulder, and though my anger hadn't faded completely, I still found myself incapable of relinquishing this contact with him. "I hate you," I told him sullenly, "but I still can't let you go." I saw out of the corner of my eye the telltale glint of gold, and then his fingers tilted my chin upwards and he was kissing me once more. Once again, I refused to react, choosing to simply stand there until he tired of kissing a statue.

It took him a while, but he eventually grew bored of my lacking response; I felt his breath against my lips as he sighed in irritation, and then he had the gall—the bloody gall!—to look into my eyes and ask, "Is something wrong?"

You can only imagine what my reaction to that would be; and this time, a few choice kisses didn't appease me in the slightest. Only when Erin had pulled Jack away and all but threw him out of the door did my screaming subside, and I fiddled with my blouse in embarrassment.

"It… it's still in me, then?" I asked her tamely.

"All the water's done, at best, is loosen it," Erin calmly informed me.

"So it could still be alive?" I blurted out, my stomach writhing in anticipation.

The woman's reply was to look straight into my eyes. "Would it please you if it were?"

I closed my eyes and looked away.

"It probably is dead, though," she told me gently. "But one can never be sure until—"

"I don't want you to… continue," I told her desperately. "I know that I should; I know that it's—it's—well, unhygienic, to say the least, but… It'll pass through eventually thought, wouldn't it?"

"Eventually," Erin agreed, "but I'd much rather—"

"I don't want you shoving a—a fire poker or whatever the hell that is up my—" I began, then sighed. "There are just some places where you just don't expect to find a fire poker!"

"It is _not_ a fire poker!" Erin snapped. "Why would I need such an item in Jamaica, in any case?"

"So we're agreed, then," I said, brushing down my skirt and edging away. "Neither of us want to continue; the baby's dead, it'll slip out when it wants to—"

"I don't think it's very safe—"

"So we don't _really_ have to—"

"_Sierra_," she told me warningly, and I fell silent at her voice.

For a moment.

"Erin…" I said to her, desperately, "I really don't want to finish… It's as if I'm… I feel like…"

"It'll be out by tomorrow morning," she told me, and I looked at her in disbelief.

"That soon?" I asked, and she nodded.

"Yes."

"So I don't _really_ have to stay here for any longer?" I queried, and she shook her head.

"No, my dear; you don't; but you may want to sit down for a few minutes…"

And she proceeded to tell me everything about Jack and Teresa that I had ever wanted to know.

* * *

"Go back onto your pot," Jack was saying as he nudged Teresa's calico cat with his foot, apparently unaware of my storming out of the hut. "Go on, there's a good—you rotten bastard!" he yelped as the cat sunk a clawed paw into his boot. 

I heard Teresa's insane cackling, and then she said, in obvious delight, "Oh, Jack, the Gods have answered—Susan the Happy Trotting Elflike But Tediously _Normal Human Being_ With Abnormally Large Breasts will be spending all of eternity with the well-endowed Stephen Verne."

"But it's not dead," Jack argued, giving the poor feline a kick. "You said that if it fell out of the branches of this tree and dies, _then_ she'll be spending all of eternity with Verne—But the git's still alive!"

"It's died in spirit," Teresa intoned knowingly. "By allowing the cat to have fallen out of the tree , the Gods are declaring the abandonment of the cat in question; therefore, it is as good as dead, and I don't _care_ if the coconuts say otherwise!"

I marched determinedly over to Teresa and slapped her; causing Jack to stare in disbelief.

"Did you sleep with her too?" he asked me as Teresa, hand pressed firmly against her cheek, staggered backwards.

"Why'd you say that?" I asked him as I watched the woman burst into tears.

"Well, in my own personal experience, a woman only ever slaps another if that person had in fact bedded them."

I glared at him, and turned away, darting towards Teresa and grabbing her firmly by the wrist. "We need to talk," I said to her, and dragged her away to the other side of the hut.

"I know," I told her when we'd stopped.

"You know?" she asked fearfully. "Know what?"

"What you think I don't know," I replied. "What you don't want me to know; well, I _do_ hate to burst your bubble, but I do know, and I find it appalling."

"I didn't mean to eat the coconut!" she cried, on the verge of tears. "It was just _there_!"

"Not the coconut!" I snapped back. "The curse!"

"What curse?" she queried, and I rolled my eyes.

"The curse where you drag a woman from the future, force her to fall in love with a man she normally wouldn't have, and then take him away from her! The one where you _ruin_ some harmless woman's life _forever_!" I yelled.

To my surprise, Teresa burst into tears.

"Oh, what's wrong _now_?" I snapped as she wrapped her arms about herself and sobbed.

"I… I never meant to… to ruin _anyone's_ life," she wailed before throwing herself at me. "What do you mean, I'm ruining her life?"

I looked coldly down at her. "_My_ life," I said softly, and she quietened. "You're ruining my life. For revenge on Jack."

"But…" she stuttered. "But you're not…"

"I am."

"But you can't be…"

"I am," I assured her, and she continued to look up at me in that childlike way of hers. "And I want you to know that… That I hate you for it. And that it isn't fair on me."

"But you're an elf…"

"For God's sake!" I muttered, wrenching my arm from out of her grip. "Listen to me, Teresa!"

She suppressed her sobs, and looked up at me once more.

"If you have a heart…" I began, "And I'm sure that you do, somewhere—You'd undo this… spell of yours. You'll allow Jack to die of his own natural causes, and you'd send me back to where I belong—" I stopped suddenly as Pearl's blue eyes flashed before me, and heard a mocking voice ask, _How can you possibly live without Pearl?_

"But you're not her," she told me. "You're not; you _can't_ be; you're too normal."

"Or…" I said hurriedly, ignoring her, Pearl's sweetly beautiful face still hovering before my vision, "you'll let her stay. You'll cast another spell and let her stay. And she'll be given custody of the child of her choice."

"Make up your mind," she said to me, disgruntled. "Are you Susan, or are you this nameless woman—which you _aren't_ yet claim to be?" And it was only then that I realised I had referred to myself in third person.

I shook my head slightly, and looked into her wide brown eyes.

"I'm Sierra," I told her slowly. "And I want you to undo what you did, and do it quickly."

"You've no right to tell me what to do," she sniffed arrogantly. "You're not out of place, nor are you out of time; you _belong_ here. I know you do; the pixies know you do, the bastards."

I closed my eyes and stamped my foot in frustration.

"_Fine_!" I snapped at her. "So I'm _not_ this woman from the future! So I'm Susan the bloody trotting elf!"

"Happy," she corrected sullenly, and I glared at her.

"That doesn't change that what you did was wrong," I continued, crossing my arms over my body. "You're taking this innocent, susceptible, vulnerable girl and you're putting her in this—this cold, harsh, foreign world where everything is dark and the motto of the time is 'free for all, one for all'—how do you think she's going to feel, trapped in this strange where everything is primitive and nothing is as it seems? When she's all alone, scared, defenceless, willing to accept anyone, any_thing_, just for a shadow of security? Have you ever thought of that?" I continued, hating myself for expressing my helplessness so uncompromisingly.

Teresa was silent, and all she could do was look at me, and I realised suddenly that no, she hadn't; she hadn't realised that she was toying with a human's life, a human's feelings. In some ways she was like a child; a child with a doll set. All she did was play, and I realised suddenly that, like a child, she never truly meant to hurt anyone. (With the exception of Jack, but he _did_ deserve it.)

My abhorrence for the woman melted away at the shocked expression on her face; I reached out and gently touched her shoulder with my fingers. "I think you know what to do," I said softly; and then, picking up my skirts, I silently made my way back to the hut, where Jack was now attempting to tie the cat to the 'tree' with some stray string.

"Look!" he beamed brightly at me, pointing at the spitting animal. "It's stayed, Sierra; it's stayed!"

There was something about him—his eyes, his voice, his smile—that reminded me uncompromisingly of a child once more, and it paid homage to my maternal nature that I felt whatever mild loathing I had for him evaporate into the air about me.

"I see," I murmured when I reached him, and reached up to kiss the corner of his mouth. The pirate started in surprise, but then smiled, clearly pleased that his irresistibility had been proven beyond a shadow of a doubt.

"Good, God," I said as I looked about us, my arms wrapping themselves about his muscled waist as I scanned the deserted territory, "Where did everybody _go_?"

"Back to the _Pearl_," Jack replied. He was about to elaborate, but I interrupted him.

"And what _of_ Pearl?" I half-accused, and he sighed in palpable exasperation. "I expected her to be here waiting for me."

"She saw me, squeaked, and ran away with the boy and Forrester's girl," Jack said to me nonchalantly. "Forrester's in hot pursuit."

I frowned. "When did he and Mary get back?" I interrogated.

"Don't know," he said with an effortless shrug. "He was just… _there_. Suddenly. Unexpectedly. Without any prior warning—"

"I get the gist, Jack," I interrupted him as he began to ramble. "Listen, um… There's something I really needed to talk to you about," and Jack groaned.

"If it's about that bloody baby—"

"It's gone," I lied easily—well, it _was_ supposedly dead. "The baby's gone—but I _am_ talking about one of your illegitimate issue."

Jack looked curiously at me, his head tilted.

"Pearl," I elaborated, looking up into his eyes. "I want to… _adopt_… Pearl. In Forrester's place."

Jack merely stared at me for a long moment and closed his eyes.

"Sweetheart, I know you're fond of her, but—"

"I _will_ be able to support her!" I interjected desperately. "No Jack, don't look at me like that—I won't have to take to the streets. I… Well, Jean-Fran—" I began, and Jack pulled a face and made a noise of disgust, causing me to fall silent as I glared at him.

"Jean's told that I look like a missing aristocrat," I continued when Jack's antipathy had somewhat faded.

"That's the oldest line in the book," Jack commented, and I frowned at him.

"He means it—And don't you remember that time that you—we—were attacked by the French, and they saw me and… You don't, do you?" I sighed at Jack's nonplussed expression. "Never mind. Well, Jean said that, you know, since I can speak French fluently and because I look so much like her that… Well, since she's probably dead, I may as well take her place, and seeing how I don't really have any other options…" I trailed off, studying his face intently. For some reason, I was waiting for Jack's… Well, his advice, which was, I suppose, understandable, as was his opinion, for was that not unequivocally linked to his advice?

There was, however, no excuse for my desiring his approval, though.

Jack was quiet for a moment, appearing to be simultaneously lost in thought _and_ gazing at me intently.

"I'm not asking you a direct question," I pointed out to him.

"All the better, as I've no intention of providing you with a direct answer," Jack shot back at me. We stood like that for a moment, arms wrapped loosely about each other, before a heavily weeping Teresa suddenly appeared, arms wrapped about herself as she sobbed her dark eyes out. Erin appeared immediately even as Jack began to move away from me, wrapping her arms tightly about her stepdaughter and murmuring words of comfort. I winced and fiddled with my skirt as I saw the two of them hold each other, guilt washing through me as I realised that I was the cause of the heartrending scene.

"Sierra?" Jack queried as Erin gently guided Teresa back inside the hut. "Methinks it time we leave."

"Hmm," I hummed in agreement even as the man steered me away from the hut and back to the docks. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"And besides, the sooner we return to my ship, the sooner you can seduce me before Father Dickinson," Jack commented nonchalantly, and I frowned at this.

"I'm sorry?"

"Or Cate," Jack amended quickly with a smugly knowing grin. "Whichever you prefer?"

It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him why, exactly, but then I recalled how he and the blonde were supposedly 'married,' and I sighed.

"You don't have to do very much," Jack continued regardless, and I rolled my eyes. "Just a lascivious kiss in a place Dickinson can view with relatively few—if any—obstructions. Although of course, you're welcome to do more…"

I closed my eyes and reached up to massage my head as I drew away from him. "Exactly what do you want me to do, Jack? Kiss Cate?" I asked, and he nodded frantically. I scowled at his almost desperate response and stepped out of his grip completely, choosing to walk silently beside him.

_Kiss Cate?_ I fumed in disbelief. Exactly what did this man take me for? Did he honestly expect me to kiss Cate, with her flowing golden hair, her gemlike eyes, her abnormally pale, unflawed skin? _Cate_, with her easy grace, her slender legs, and her cruelly beautiful smile?

_Kiss Cate?_

Somehow, I didn't think so; she may be beautiful, but she was also, of course, a bitch—and a bitch who hated me at that. Even if I wanted to, I wouldn't have stood a chance.

* * *

The relatively short journey back to the _Black Pearl_ was rather uneventful; Jack abandoned all attempts at manipulating me into conducting a lesbian affair with his current lover, brought up Jean's aristocratic plan, and assured me that he supported the idea. Not once did he mention anything about Pearl, and when I tried to raise the subject of his daughter's custody, he merely brushed it aside with characteristic nonchalance. 

But when I stepped onto the ebony ship for what I realised was probably the last time, I was greeted with a shock that sent a shiver of horror down my spine. Cate, Jack's supposed 'wife,' had taken to dangling Father Dickinson by his ankles from the mast, and I watched with mounting dread as the blonde approached us at her captain's orders. Turning away from the couple, I murmured softly that I would be fetching my few measly belongings, and hurried below decks as fast as I could lest I witness a gesture of affection pass between the two of them.

Only when the sun was no longer beating down upon my head did I allow myself to cry once more, my hands clinging desperately to the railing as I moved slowly down the steps. Only now did the full realisation of what was happening—that I would never see Jack nor his ship again, that I'd be spending the rest of my life with complete strangers—sink in, and considering how my day was already highly emotionally charged, it didn't take much more to unleash my tears in a flood of sorrow, and I soon found myself sinking to the floor, seated precariously on the wooden stairs with my head in my hands as I cried continuously.

I was uncertain of how long I had sat there, weeping in self-pity, but soon I felt a hand on my knee, shaking me gently, and then I heard Jean's voice telling me harshly to get a hold of myself. I looked up at him, shakily wiping at my eyes, and gasped in surprise as I felt a heavy cloth package thrown into my lap. Looking down, I realised that the bag in question was one of my own, crammed with my few menial belongings in this world, and I clung tightly to the sack, telling myself to stop crying.

Eventually, my stream of tears was staunched, and after carefully wiping at my face, I looked up at the impatient Frenchman and allowed myself to be unpityingly pulled to my feet.

"_Je vous déteste_," I said to him harshly, but all the man did was turn me around and push me back up the stairs.

When I'd emerged on deck, I was surprised to see that Jack literally had his hands full with comforting the sobbing Father Dickinson, whose feet were now firmly on the ground—literally speaking, of course. Jean steered me carefully to the railing, clearly determined to leave the _Pearl_ as soon as was possible, but Jack, having decided to abandon Dickinson, approached us, much to my secret pleasure.

"Are… Are you two _really_ married?" I queried as I looked suspiciously at Dickinson, who had taken to shaking his fist and calling me a thousand unrepeatable things whilst Jean melted into the background, as was his wont.

"Of course we are," Jack confirmed with the air of one who was constantly telling the truth yet still remained known as a liar. "Why?"

"I… I just thought…" I stammered before meekly concluding, "I thought you were lying."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "Why would I lie about being _married_?" he asked me incredulously, and I bit my tongue to refrain myself from providing him the obvious answer to his almost innocuous question.

"I just… naturally assumed that you wanted to get me into bed," I replied, and Jack's expression seemed to almost imperceptibly change into one of agreement.

"Oh," I said in my truly acerbic wit, a hand reaching up to lightly touch my head. "Oh Jack…" I almost cried—_again_. I bit my inner cheek and silently told myself to stay in control, glancing about me and registering dimly that my belongings were being lowered into a waiting boat. "Do you like it?" I asked stupidly, unable to say much more.

"Being married?" he queried, and I nodded. "It's…" he cleared his throat and closed his eyes, as though in pain. "…Tolerable," he finished almost pathetically.

"You told me it was invalid!" I snapped at him, hiding behind my mask of annoyance.

"It is!" Jack told me, attempting to grab my hand, but I drew away, turning and spotting a silent Cate watching us, an enigmatic expression on her face. Bile rose in my throat at the mere _sight_ of her, and I instantly cast my gaze elsewhere.

_Jack told me that he had been _forced _to marry Cate,_ I recalled bitterly as I stood on the deck, the gentle breeze blowing my hair into my face. He also told me that the pretty pirate didn't actually want to be married to him either. _So what the hell was the problem?_

It seemed to me that I should ask the pirate directly.

"So why—" I began, turning to look at the captain, but was unfortunately interrupted by Cate, who, clearly unhappy with the supposedly intimate tableau Jack and I presented, had sashayed forwards in that confident, predatory way of hers.

"Dickinson thinks it's valid," she said, forcing me to step back from her husband. "The _crew_ thinks it's valid; beliefs which have caused my _dear_ husband—" and she paused in her explanation to give her husband a quick but affectionate peck on his lips. "…Much distress," she finished, her head resting on his shoulder, and my stomach writhed in jealousy as I realised just how… _perfectly_ they seemed to go together. They were physical opposites, and yet they were alike, and the vibrant clash of their distinctive colourings just seemed to… _fit_. To balance each other out.

_They were equals,_ I realised as I stared at the pair of them. And that was something that I could never be with Jack.

"…I see," I said at last, my voice quiet as this sudden realisation dawned on me, and found myself holding back tears once _again_. Unable to see more, I cast my eyes back to Father Dickinson, who had just concluded that in addition to be a succubus, witch, and overpriced whore, I was also a petty shoplifter, and I looked at the priest for a moment longer until I was certain I wouldn't weep. Then, and only then, did I return my gaze to Jack, choosing to deliberately ignore Mrs. Sparrow.

"_The sooner we return to my ship, the sooner you can seduce me before Father Dickinson… Or Cate. Whichever you prefer."_

_He doesn't actually want to be married to her._

"Is _this_ what your request of a goodbye kiss is all about?" I asked suddenly as the sudden thought struck me, and I looked urgently into his eyes. "To convince Dickinson to annul your marriage?"

The pirate nodded vigorously, and by some odd miracle, my playful sense of humour was restored.

"I see," I purred, stepping closer to the unhappily married couple, and this time it was _Cate's_ turn to step away, which she did with some difficulty, moving away only a few inches whilst she watched us in distrust. "Jack…" I said, attempting to ignore the way her eyes, no doubt brimming with loathing jealousy, bore into me.

"I'm going to be climbing down into that boat in a moment," I told him breathily, my lips nearly brushing his own, and felt the smug triumph upon realising that he was concentrated upon our ghost of a kiss and very little else. "So I suppose this is our goodbye… Isn't it?" I almost whispered, my hands reaching up to finger what was once the collar of his shirt. Beside us, I heard Cate release a cry of pained outrage… But Jack seemed to be oblivious to his wife's distress.

"I assume so," Jack murmured, beginning to slowly move closer—

But I pulled swiftly away, giggling in delight at his… _innocence_.

"Oh, Jack…" I laughed as he jerked suddenly away, looking at me inquisitively. "Jack…" I said again, deliberately patronising, and I allowed myself to look straight into his brown eyes.

"You really are quite naïve, aren't you?" I asked rhetorically. Before he, or indeed anyone, had a chance to comment or query my cryptic words, I dashed forward once more, my arm wrapping about a slender, lightly-muscled waist whilst my fingers twisted and buried themselves into a loose mass of soft, silky hair, almost clawing at the skull.

My only regret was that I couldn't see the expression on Jack's face as I brought my lips to Cate's in a crushing, merciless kiss.

**-x!x-**

**AN:** For those of you who are interested, I've got a short story up entitled , which sheds some light on Jack's respective relationships with Cate, Father Dickinson… and to a certain extent, Mr. Cotton's parrot. It also explains how Jack and Cate ended up "married" as well.


	51. So Painfully Shy

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Chapter Fifty:** So Painfully Shy_

For a moment, Cate merely stood there, a frozen effigy, undoubtedly rooted to the spot by scandalised shock. I smirked slightly into the kiss as I became somewhat aware of the silence that had fallen across the _Pearl_, and took advantage of her lacking resistance to pull her closer. This slight action—coupled, perhaps, with my tongue's insistent poking—seemed to bring her back to the furthest fringes of self-awareness; I felt her hands reaching up to grab my shoulders, and groaned as I realised suddenly that she intended to push me away. Now, this wouldn't do at all; how could I successfully stage a lesbian kiss if the kissing partner was an unwilling participant?

So before she could push me back, I shifted immediately to the second part of my hastily concocted plan—for I did, indeed, have a plan—and stumbled backwards, pulling her with me until I felt myself pressed against the railing of the ship. Without a pause, I spun, still clinging tightly to the blonde, and shoved her against the blackened wood instead. My hands tightened their grip as I pressed myself firmly into her body, able to feel the enviably toned muscles of her flat stomach and soft, but (to my smug delight) smaller bosom. I held her in that position for a moment longer, my ears pricked for… Well, _something_ from the crew—or Jack. But all I received was silence.

Peeved that my performance wasn't receiving the standing ovation that it deserved, I pulled away, gasping for air, and looked into Cate's prettily flushed face, noting her dilated eyes and astonished expression. She was a surprisingly good kisser, and it seemed somewhat ironic that my most passionate and intense kiss to date was with another woman—and a woman that I uncompromisingly _loathed_ at that.

We stared into one another's eyes for a long moment, each of us studying the other.

And then, without giving anybody even the slightest indication, I turned slightly, rammed my shoulder forcibly into her torso, heard her gasp at the sudden impact—and then she had fallen, disappearing over the side with the beginnings of a scream—

Only to be most _unfortunately_ cut off by a rather painful-sounding splash.

I laughed—I couldn't help it—my hands coming together, pleased that my scheme had gone so smoothly. Oh, what I would give to relive that moment again—and again, and again…

I heard Jean cry out from below even as several of the _Pearl's_ pirates rushed to lean over the edge, shouting and obnoxiously expressing their concern for Cate's well-being. I drew away from the edge as quickly as I could, standing deliberately in the very centre of the deck, arms wrapped protectively about myself. When Cate returned—and of course, she _will_ return—I wanted to make certain to deprive her of the opportunity of repeating the same attack on me.

"So tell me, Father," I said, turning towards the priest gaping at me in horror. "What have you to say on the marriage _now_?"

My mocking words elicited a mild explosion from Father Dickinson; with a stamping of feet and a waving of hands, he bellowed in a high, panicked voice that, due to the heinous and unnatural acts that had so recently transpired, he was left with no choice but to declare Jack and Cate's nuptials void in order to ensure the purity of Jack's immortal soul.

I beamed happily at the Protestant, noting out of the corner of my eye that a thoroughly drenched Cate had clambered back onto the ship, before turning to face Jack.

"So…" I murmured whilst Cate hurried to Jack's cabin somewhere in the background, and paused: What could I say to the man whose wife I had just kissed and whose marriage I had helped annul? I looked closely at his surprisingly open, shell-shocked face, and realised suddenly that I could use Jack's bewilderment to my advantage.

"I'll be seeing you later, won't I?" I arranged casually, my swift pulse unusually loud and pronounced in my ears, sill reeling from the kiss. "To retrieve Pearl and discuss her… future?"

Jack's shocked expression never once changed whilst he nodded, and I suspected that he hadn't actually heard a word I'd been saying; as a matter of fact, he was barely looking at me, staring intently at the spot where Cate and I had kissed.

_What a useful bargaining chip,_ I thought to myself, adjusting my slightly rumpled clothing. If this was what happened when I'd simply _kissed_ another woman—Jack's silence and unusually predisposed pliancy, his readiness to grant me whatever request I had without a thought… Why, if I slept with Cate whilst he watched on, I might be able to secure Pearl's custody with relatively little opposition. And I was willing to do that; I was willing to do anything for Pearl.

Good God, what a wonderful role model I'd make for the child.

"Well then," I said aloud, looking up at him. "I suppose this is goodbye."

_For now._

Jack could only nod, still wearing that adorably amazed expression, and I inclined my own head in turn before moving back to the where the rope ladder awaited.

"Sierra."

It was just one, brief, simple statement, uninflected by any nuance of emotion, but it froze me in my tracks. Hesitantly, I turned back to look at him. "Yes, Jack?"

He seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment longer, but that soon faded as his smug grin came back to his face. "What about _my_ goodbye kiss?" he challenged good-humouredly, the shock of the Sapphic snog having been somewhat subdued.

I could do nothing but stare at him, looking him evenly in the eye. And then I smiled at his credulity, and that smiled soon turned into a laugh as I shook my head, murmuring his name.

"That _was_ your goodbye kiss," I said at last, and had dashed down the rope ladder as fast as I dared. What Cate would do to me when the initial shocked revulsion wore off didn't bear thinking about.

Jean was, of course, less than amused upon witnessing his beloved Cate splashing most indignantly in the water; I saw the darkened marks and small puddles that had gathered in the rowboat as she had clambered in, and when I'd climbed down the ladder, I felt the dampened hemp her own hands had brushed as she'd shimmied up. The Frenchman continued to sing the sea-woman's praises even as he rowed, whilst I merely adjusted my hair and clothes, silently wondering if the aristocrat Jean would take me to would be able to see right through me.

Not once did I tell my companion I'd kissed Cate. Judging from how obviously smitten with her he was, imparting such knowledge would result in my imminent downfall.

* * *

Christophe d'Évignon: the name bounced about my head as I silently mouthed the words like a prayer, determined to have the syllables roll of my tongue as though I had grown up with this man who would soon hold my life in his hands. _Christophe, Christophe, Christophe; mon frère Christophe… Mon frère Christophe… Mon frère, mon frère, mon frère…_

My own brother's face, which had inherited my mother's dark, sensuous beauty, flashed before me, and I shuddered, closing my eyes. I never could look at my brother for very long; there was something about his face, that flawless, symmetrical mask of gold, which frightened me. It was an unnameable, eerie trait that my mother had bestowed upon her firstborn, something which I couldn't place, but which had always screamed at some deep, feral instinct deep within me to flee—and to feel as though you ought to run from your own immediate family was not a pleasant experience.

Shaking my head, I forced my thoughts to return to the current situation at hand, and closed my eyes as I attempted to picture the gentleman. When I'd asked Jean, he had helpfully described the nobleman as "_sombre et beau_," an obscure, universal description which immediately made me think of Jack. Dark and handsome: how many men in the world could such a description be applied to? When I questioned Jean further, he had snapped at me to stop worrying myself about Christophe's appearance and look in a mirror instead. I had hit him and then proceeded to sulk, glancing back out at the ocean where the _Black Pearl_ waited—for what, I don't know. But I knew it wasn't waiting for me.

Jean helpfully offered me a hand out of the small boat when we'd reached the shallows, after partly pulling the wooden structure onto the slightly rocky beach. I hesitated for a moment, and he made a noise of impatience. Sighing, I accepted the gesture, and stepped onto the uneven ground, the sea chasing at my ankles.

"_How did you find me?_" I asked aloud as he rather uncaringly threw my belongings to rest beside me, glad that I didn't have anything of any value. "_I mean, how did you come across—How did you meet…_" I paused to sigh in exasperation. "_I don't think your Christophe will be very pleased to hear that his sister spent a considerable amount of time as the unwanted guest of an English pirate,_" I concluded meaningfully.

"_I was a merchant sailor on your ship,_" Jean said, and I tightened my jaw as I watched him carelessly leave the boat, untied, unmoored, just begging to be stolen. "_We were shipwrecked together and rescued by passing Englishmen. Sound plausible to you?_"

"_Not really,_" I said, and didn't do him the courtesy of elaborating. We walked in silence, and between repeating Nicolette's name in my head over and over and over, I had the satisfaction of watching Jean carrying my few belongings like a serf.

"_Will you be returning to the _Black Pearl" I asked suddenly as the man dodged a renegade horse, panicked and unsaddled.

"_Pourquoi?_" he queried suspiciously.

"_I want you to give a message to Jack Sparrow," I said to him. "I want you to tell—_remind _him that I'm meeting him later at the docks this evening._" Jean shook his head and proclaimed that he considered the arrangement a bad one, and his damnation of the entire affair was not lifted when I told him that it was only about little Pearl Sparrow. Apparently, French countesses rarely fraternise with English pirates.

"_Well tell him, anyway,_" I said firmly. "_Or I'll just come marching back onto the ship, and then you'll never be rid of me._"

"_I'm not staying onboard,_" Jean said to me. "_Unlike Cate, I've not signed any articles._"

I straightened at this. "_Pardon?_" I asked. "_Cate's staying on? With Jack?_"

Jean merely shrugged in reply, and I scowled, lifting my skirts and quickening my pace, even though I'd not a single idea where we were going.

* * *

Jean had guided me in a circular direction so that we had arrived at the docks, at which he had dragged me, with my few and therefore portable belongings, pass the crates, barrels, animals, sailors and even a few slaves and into a clean, respectable-looking inn—but not tavern, I realised suddenly as a familiar scent invaded my nostrils, making my stomach growl with yearning, but a _coffeehouse_—inhabited by a few select gentlemen in immaculately powdered wigs and clothes ranging from the sombre to the fashionable.

My head seemed to turn wildly of its own accord as I gaped at all of the men, taking in the uniform cut of their clothing, their hats, which, besides a few embellishments here and there, were all identical; their hands, some lined, some young, all manicured—but most of all, I couldn't help but observe their cleanliness. I'd been surrounded by the unwashed dregs of society for so long that I had forgotten my initial revulsion for their lacking sanitation, but walking amongst these and being able to discern the actual colour of their skin at first glance made me uncomfortably aware of my own indubitably grimy appearance. I noticed that some of the men were glancing at me, and immediately looked away, wrapping my arms about myself in something akin to embarrassment.

But too late, I noticed that they were all staring at me, watching me with their keen eyes. _Why?_ I thought to myself, chancing another glance around. Was I really so palpably, so ethereally beautiful? Or did I appear to them a pitiful wretched beggar? And then it hit me: besides the serving wenches, there were no women. This coffeehouse was exclusively for men. I paused at this revelation, scowling at the sexism of it all before remembering my place and hurrying after Jean with my head meekly bowed.

Seated at the back of this informal gentlemen's club was a young man who was the very epitome of fop; his face, I saw immediately, was powdered, and there was an actual beauty spot hovering beneath his nose. It was impossible for me to distinguish the colour of his hair, for his head was covered by a white periwig, and his eyebrows were all but indiscernible beneath all of the powder.

I wrinkled my nose in disgust as the unmistakable scent of an overpowering perfume invaded my nostrils, but did my best not to sneeze. But I was barely six feet away when the odour became too much to bare, and began to rather disrespectfully cough.

"_Nicolette?_"

For a moment, I wondered who he was referring to before wincing and snapping my head back up to look at him once more. The man's eyes were grey, a dull watery blue that looked up at me in undisguised fascination and something akin to recognition. Slowly, he stood, and despite myself I shrank back.

Was _this_ the man my life was now entrusted to? This sunshine-yellow-clad, beauty-spotted, possibly homosexual gentleman who clearly hadn't heard of the saying "less is more?" The urge to turn tail and run back to Jack overpowered me, and I'd taken a step back before suddenly stopping and reasserting my balance.

The gentleman stalked closer, and I actually did sneeze as his fingers came up to rest beneath my chin, forcing me to look up at him so that he could study my face closely.

"_It really is you,_" he breathed, and I smiled weakly.

"_Mon Dieu, you've put on a lot of weight,_" he commented, and my smile effectively vanished; I fell back at his words, clutching tightly to my bodice in a defensive gesture. I saw him scowl as his eyes roamed over my body, his lips curling into a sneer as he took in my bedraggled appearance; his hands snatched up mine, and he made a noise of disdain as he studied the dry, callused skin.

"_Oh, Nicolette!_" he exclaimed, shaking his head in despair. "_What has happened to you? What _would _your brother think?_"

My eyes widened at this, but I kept my silence and ducked my head once more, having long since decided to play the part of a timid damsel; surely the trauma of living amongst the masses would have radically changed the aristocrat's personality anyway. And if she was already quiet, shy and insecure, then no one would be any the wiser.

But if this man wasn't Nicolette's brother… I looked back at Jean in uncertainty, my eyes pleading with him, but his own gaze was cold, piercing right through me. I felt myself fading into obscurity as he stepped forward, felt myself being pushed back into the background as he bent his head closer to the fop, evidently discussing terms of payment.

Nervously, I looked around to find that several, not all, of the male patrons were gazing back: some were leering, but that was fine, I knew how to handle lechers; some regarded me simply as a curiosity, a woman standing before a humorously fashionable dandy; others still looked upon me with the same condescending sneers I had only been so recently subjected to.

I bit my lip, feeling a blush creeping up my cheeks, and dropped my eyes before slowly raising my head.

The door was open, swaying mockingly on its hinges as another man entered, disinterestedly scanning the area before his eyes fell upon a table. The door was still open, sunlight streaming in a blinding stripe that slowly dwindling, and as I stared at the light, I couldn't help but think of how easy, how quick it would be to just dart out of that door and back to…

To where? To Jack? I shook my head imperceptibly and glanced back over my shoulder, my eyebrows rising as I realised that neither Frenchman were paying much attention to me. If I wanted to, I could have run away. But I had nowhere to run to, and they both knew that. I shuddered, feeling my skin prickle from an invisible chill, and wrapped my arms about myself. Now I'm not the sort to place much stock by feelings of premonition, but I couldn't deny how my stomach writhed and twisted in discomfort whilst I simply stood there, waiting to be told what to do next.

_Oh,_ I wanted so desperately to gather little Pearl up in my arms! My body, my heart, my very being felt oddly cold and empty without her there to bury her face into my shoulder; each passing second away from her charming company deadened my very soul, and I soon felt as though if I didn't see her sparkling blue eyes tonight, my spirit would wither away altogether.

_Jack,_ I prayed silently even as I heard someone call out Nicolette's name, _Jack, please keep your promise. Please don't weigh anchor and sail away tonight. I _have _to see Pearl again. You have to take me to her._

I almost had to laugh at myself for how I allowed my emotions to rule me; here I stood, with two men I neither knew nor trusted, two men who held my life in their hands, and all I could think about was the safety of a child who wasn't even mine! How I'd so drastically changed from that irresponsible malingerer who, out of sheer idleness, was unable to hold down a job. What would my father say now? Would he be proud of me for the shadow of responsibility I now possessed, or would he still be upset that I'd turned into what he'd dreaded most?

I could still recall his words after my brother had fetched me, the long-winded speech in which he explained to me that he didn't want his children—morphing into socialites like his own flighty mother was. He wanted us to be responsible, to make something of ourselves, not rely on our spouses or inheritance. My father's values had always amused me; he was a gentleman born into a dynasty of wealth and breeding, had travelled in the highest of circles his entire life, and yet had somehow emerged from the dizzying wilderness of champagne, cigars and caviar with bourgeois ideals. He was a modern liberal with Victorian values, and I had always found the contradiction amusing in light of my friends' families' more traditional views.

I was being shaken now, and had no choice but to pull myself from out of my silent contemplations. Looking around, I saw immediately that Jean had gone, and it was this strange, perfumed man that was addressing me, that had sighed in frustration and was now pulling me to the door, pass the stares and discomforting whispers that made me fidget with nervousness.

And then, to my utter surprise, he said aloud in crisp, unaccented English, "Where the devil is that bastard? 'Tis not the place of a governor's son to fetch and carry like a common bondsman."

I gaped at him, uncertain of what to make of this sudden revelation. The governor's son? The governor of Kingston, of course. But his French, his accent—it was flawless. More than that, there was a slight regional twang to it that reminded of the natives of Nice and Monaco. I had honestly believed that French had been his first language, that he had travelled from France to Jamaica recently, but hearing him speak English—not to mention his familiarity with common aphorisms—completely shattered my initial assessment. Now I merely gaped at him as he led me to a waiting carriage guarded by a liveried footman, opening the door and carefully helping me clamber in before following suit.

He sat opposite me once more, his hands resting on his knees as he peered at me once more.

"_You've grown more beautiful since I last saw you,_" he said to me, switching back to his flawless French. "_Do you remember that? Six years ago, at cousin Adélaïde's wedding?_"

I smiled weakly at him, uncertain of how to respond to his familiarity, and dropped my eyes, studying my chafed hands.

"_I assume your mother and father didn't take up my suggestion of providing both you and your charming brother English lessons, did they?_" he quizzed, and I hesitated before shaking my head, my eyes studying my fingernails.

"Pity," he said in English once more. "I'm getting sick of speaking French with all of my mother's relatives, but no matter." He was silent for a moment, and I felt his grey eyes studying me with an intensity that made me redden.

The governor's son laughed softly.

"Still as painfully shy as ever, my sweet?" he said friendlily, and I felt myself warming to him ever so slightly. So my unwarranted judgment of Nicolette's personality was right, after all. I looked up at him and smiled slightly, and he grinned back, the white powder making the stretching of his mouth all the more darker. "I thought as much," he laughed, leaning forward and catching my hand in his, gently instructing me to look at him.

"You've grown so much," he said to me, still in the English which I supposedly was unable to understand. "There's something different about you, but I like it." His grin widened as I stiffened at his words, fear digging its claws into my heart like a knife.

"You really are… indescribable," he continued. "Even as you are, dirty and unkempt, dressed in peasant's garments, there's something about you… Your eyes, your lips, your face…"

He leaned back and sighed in contentment whilst I suppressed another cough at the strength of his perfume, looking at me from under heavy lids.

"Christ, if we weren't cousins, I'd fuck you, here and now."

My jaw dropped open at his words even as the carriage jolted, and I immediately attempted to compose myself whilst ignoring this vaguely incestuous comment. Instead, I shifted on my seat to gaze out of the window, silently attempting to memorise the route we had taken. Wherever it was this man, this "cousin," (who, due in no small part to his last comment, I now regarded with grave suspicion) was taking me, I wanted to make sure that I was able to retrace our path back to the docks. I had to see Jack one more time, to convince him to entrust his daughter into my safekeeping: I didn't know what I would do in this world of perfumed cousins and unreliable brothers without Pearl's customary bouncy energy. The very core of my being yearned for her precocious wit with a silent, suffocating desperation; my eyes seemed to burn with an inner fire, a flame I knew would only be quelled when I saw for myself that she was safe.

Was this overwhelming concern for her well-being normal? I wondered as the carriage continued its creaking. But the answer didn't matter to me: Out of all of my worries (and I had more than my fair share), my greatest fear was that Jack would have left Kingston before nightfall, and I would never lay eyes on her perfect cherubic face again.

**-x!x-**


	52. Changes

**AN:** For this chapter, I decided to amend/adjust my writing style slightly, and consequently found it to be rather challenging to write, in case you cared…

**How My Perfect Life Was Inverted**

_**Epilogue:** Changes_

I sighed as I sank into the tub of water, having shooed away both perverted cousin and fussing maid, grinning to myself as the liquid enveloped my body in its warmth, my skin tingling in gratitude. I'd not had a bath since leaving the Garter, and even then, the water had been cold, so to have the request of warm bathing water fulfilled was a pleasure beyond description, and one that I, humble pirate's whore that I was, was so eager to experience that I'd pushed Paul—for that, as I'd discovered through careful manipulating of conversation, was the name of Nicolette's English cousin—and his groping inclinations to the back of my mind in order to enjoy the cleansing sensation. It came as a surprise to me to discover that Paul and Nicolette were at one time engaged, although it did explain his predisposition to grab my arse whenever the opportunity arose.

I sat up slightly, my hands rising slowly to tip the cupped water over my head, and giggled as the liquid ran down my face and vanished into my hair before repeating the motion. Pausing, I looked suspiciously around before cautiously rising and making my way over to a small stand where a bar of soap had been left. The maids had put up a changing screen, at my badly-false-accented request and some gestures in Paul's general direction, and I had asked the obedient women to leave so that I might have some privacy, an enquiry that had them raising their eyebrows. Apparently the nobility were incapable of something as simple as bathing themselves, and I couldn't begin to imagine their reactions upon discovering that I'd abandoned the large shirt that they'd provided for me in favour of bathing naked. Such scandal; but then again, Nicolette _was_ French.

My stomach turned slightly, upsetting my meditative mood, and I'd immediately attempted to banish the irksome thought, choosing instead to admire how the water ran down my legs. God, I had great legs; and don't even get me started on my tits… I scowled at this thought, and silently cursed Teresa. But the woman did have a point.

My wet fingers ran through my hair, my scalp protesting as they encountered a stubborn knot; and unfortunately, there were far more than a mere handful. Inhaling deeply, I ducked under the water, wetting my hair far more thoroughly than my therapeutic cupping of the water.

When I'd resurfaced, Paul was standing before me, leering.

I obviously screamed, and refused to stop until a (male) servant came running at my shrieks, clearly distressed. All I need do was point at Paul in a panicked and hysterical manner, fingers trembling, and the governor's son was (reluctantly) escorted out, the servant having taken a little too long to pull on his master's sleeve.

"Randy bastard," I muttered the moment I heard the door close, my arms wrapping protectively about my naked torso. It goes without saying that I finished my bath with a speed that would have made a cheetah vomit with envy.

Most unfortunately for me, all of Nicolette's clothing had been lost on the voyage, and her brother, the conspicuously absent Christophe, who Paul had told me was in the town on business ("bourgeois peasant that he was," he had added with a sniff), hadn't the hindsight to order more to be made in Paris, so I was left to browse Paul's mother's collection of boring, unfashionable day gowns. Apparently, the governor and his wife were visiting some friends of theirs on a plantation further inland, and would not be returning for another week, leaving the foppish Paul with the run of the house. _What responsible parents he had,_ I'd thought, looking at the powdered creature with the mentality, sophistication, and sexual politics of a teenaged boy in disdain. The reasons why Nicolette's parents had broken off the engagement were blindingly obvious to me, and it was _not_ for solely patriotic purposes, despite what Paul himself may have said.

After careful consideration, I chose a suit of bright pale yellow and a white chemise. I called it a suit, though it was really nothing more than a dress that had been divided into a tight-fitting jacket with a low square décolletage that laced at the front and a matching skirt that, uncommonly enough for this century, did not part in the centre to reveal the petticoat beneath. The sleeves, I noted as a nameless maid laced me tightly in, were shorter than the current mode, ending sharply after the elbow instead of halfway down the forearm, and there were no laces or frills, not even on the smock, which was a plain, shapeless square of linen. As Paul would indubitably exclaim when he saw me (which I had no desire of allowing to occur, yet knew I had no choice in the matter), the overall look was more bourgeois than aristocratic. Yet it was, without a doubt, the most beautiful outfit I had worn yet.

I was barely dressed when Paul the Pervert came bursting in, causing the maids to twitter in alarm as they rushed to cover me, an action for which I would remain eternally grateful. I glared at him from beneath my drying hair, clutching tightly to the shawl thrown hastily over my shoulders as he made a sort of informal bow and civilly requested that I join him for dinner. I declined just as politely, declaring that I was feeling slightly faint, which due in no small part to my corset wasn't a complete lie, and told him I'll be dining in my room.

"_Alone_," I added for clarification purposes, and saw the hope die in his eyes with sadistic satisfaction.

"_I understand,_" he said in a way that merely illustrated his unwillingness to admit defeat, and several agonisingly awkward minutes of making unreciprocated small talk, he slunk back out of the room with his tail hanging dejectedly between his legs. I shuddered, reluctant to relinquish my shawl, which had to be forcibly pried from my stubborn fingers by an iron-willed maid. Hesitantly, I enquired in my newfound French accent exactly when "my brother" would return, only to receive blank stares. This silent answer both soothed and worried me; the way I saw it, the longer Christophe stayed away, the more time I had to polish my act. However, if the aristocrat was to stay away for too long, then God (along with, I'm sure, a handful of porn directors) only knew what the unchaperoned Paul would get up to.

Only when I was dressed did the maids retreat, leaving me to my own devices. I pulled and tugged at the jacket, attempting to claw through the expensive material and rip apart the corset beneath, but stopped upon catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, taking note of the streamlined waist and fantastic cleavage it provided. I stepped closer to the looking-glass, ignoring the pain this induced, and proceeded to admire myself for several minutes at various angles that would have made Narcissus himself blush with shame. My fingers traced my hair, still slightly damp, but curled, piled upon my head with several invisible hairpins. I had no accessories—the governor's wife had taken all of her jewels, if not all of her clothes—so I couldn't help but feel that my neck and ears, hands and wrists, seemed unusually bare, which made me feel vulnerable and uncomfortable and so _not_ a noblewoman that if the _real_ Nicolette shows up…

_If the real Nicolette shows up…_ I repeated to myself, closing my eyes as the thought I'd been so desperately trying to quell pushed its way to the surface. _As if I didn't have _enough _to worry about already!_

I shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts and banish the other worries threatening to overtake my sanity, and chose instead to open my eyes and admire myself once more. My skin was fairer, I noticed with a frown; it didn't surprise me that my skin would be _lighter_, thanks in no small part to the conspicuous lack of bathing facilities on the _Black Pearl_, but surely I wasn't this pale before? Or perhaps I was; perhaps I had just imagined that subtle tan. And I hadn't really been going out into the sun very often; most women didn't, in an effort to keep their pale complexions, and I had simply followed suit, desperate as I was to fit in.

I continued to stare at myself for such a long time that even _I_ began to sicken of it, and eventually drew away from the mirror, glancing at the balcony with its open doors. The sun was low, I realised with a twitching of my stomach; I would somehow have to make my way back to the docks, to _Jack_, without drawing anybody's attention. And I hadn't even told anyone—not even Paul, who I didn't trust myself to talk to without getting grabbed at—that I planned to "adopt" a child. I was certain that bringing a girl—and a girl who looked so much like me, I thought suddenly with another twinge of my stomach—would do more than raise eyebrows. I could only hope that Nicolette was a pure, chaste, virginal, kind-hearted, charitable sort of woman—preferably rather pious as well—who _would_ do something as selfless as take in an English "orphan." And if she wasn't, and if the girl looked so much like her, then…

_Christophe._ The name came suddenly to the surface of my mind, and I stiffened. Her brother; the only one who would truly know if I _was_ Nicolette, would also be the only one who could safely vouch that Pearl was not Nicolette's child. Living in such close proximity to her, surely he would know that Nicolette had never gotten pregnant, had never given birth, at the time she must have done to have Pearl be her daughter… Had she? I mean, if she had… If she resembled me, not only in looks but also in behaviour—The words "oh" and "shit" didn't even _begin_ to cover it.

_But _I'm _Nicolette now,_ I thought savagely. _So I can stop referring to myself in third person._

But how could I justify to Paul, to the servants, that I wanted to visit the docks by twilight, meet up with a common English scoundrel, and take his daughter into my care? In other words, how was I to escape the governor's mansion?

The answer came to me even as my stomach knotted further.

_Paul,_ I thought in disgust. The servants saw the way he leered at me, at how he always tried to touch me, at how he would waltz into my room uninvited merely to get a glimpse of my skin. When my supper was brought up, I'd simply ask the maid who did so to have a carriage prepared for an evening ride. I'd smile at her, and touch her hand, and confidentially admit in my strong yet understandable French accent that I wanted to stay as far away from Paul as possible until my brother had returned to guard my chastity.

I began to smile, but that smile soon vanished as I doubled over, clutching as my stomach gave another twinge that was decidedly more painful than its predecessors.

_Oh God…_ I thought, biting my lip in order not to cry out. _Oh God oh God oh God oh God oh God!_

Stumbling slightly, I was able to make my way over to a clean and empty chamber pot, hitching my skirts up over my knees as my body acted out of instinct whilst my mind continued its chant. My stomach twitched yet again, more painfully this time, only it wasn't my stomach, I realised, but rather, my womb…

My mouth opened in a silent scream and I leant forward, my chin tilting into my chest as I attempted to arch my back, but I couldn't, not in the whale-boned corset—

My hand reached out, clawing at the sheets covering the mattress as I desperately attempted to steady myself. Erin had said this would happen; she had told me that when the embryo (though she didn't use that exact word) was expelled, I would go through some sort of minor contractions, but—

_Oh, God!_

My hands were both preoccupied, one steadying my balance, the other keeping my skirts out of the way, so I bit down harder on my lip, so hard that I was certain it would draw blood. It seemed to continue for an eternity, this false shadow of a birth, and yet it very probably only lasted for a few minutes.

When I was certain it was over, I moved away, looking down at the pot now filled with a distressingly high volume of blood, my heartbeat thundering in my ears as I breathed heavily, sweat beading across my skin.

"So…" I said to myself as I stared at the container in a sort of morbid fascination. "That's it, then…"

That was all that remained of my baby, my child; a chamber pot of blood. And it had _hurt_; it had hurt so much… But childbirth was supposedly more painful.

Trembling, I straightened, eyes watering as I stumbled to the small corner where my few belongings rested, skirts still lifted high above my knees; I couldn't very well undress myself without asking for the maids to return to help me back into the outfit, which would most certainly raise suspicions. My hand pawed and clawed at one bundle in particular, until finally I held in my grasp a bundle of rags; the eighteenth-century equivalent of a sanitary towel, or rather, a tampon, as I had yet to encounter any drawers or pantaloons or the like for women. Must have been a later invention.

I stumbled back behind the screen, secretly glad that the maids hadn't the time to remove or empty the bath tub, and that there was still a few pails filled with cooler water now. I hurriedly untied my garters and slipped out of my stockings, glad that my "casual" clothing did not call for hoops or panniers, hence making it easier for me to get at my legs, and proceeded to wash myself once more, hastily drying myself and slipping a swaddling of linen into place to catch whatever traces of blood remained.

"It doesn't _mean_ anything," I told myself savagely as I retrieved my stockings and garters, determined to ignore the tears streaming down my face.

* * *

When my meal was brought up, I was far more controlled and composed than I had been an hour or so earlier, and besides the bloodied chamber pot, there were no traces that I had lost a child. Thankfully, my plan of a post-supper carriage ride went off with relatively little difficulties or complications; the young freckled girl that had brought up my meal seemed to understand my concern, and when she'd reappeared to clear away my empty plates, she told me that the carriage was ready to fly into the night "whenever your lady wishes it." 

I had told her that yes, I would leave immediately, and hurriedly went to slip into my worn leather shoes—so out of place with the rest of the barely-touched ensemble—and touched my new curls once more in a last-minute styling attempt before slipping on a cloak a blue so pale and faded it was almost white and hurrying after the servant with a girlish giggle of mischief.

I politely thanked the footman who helped me into the coach, and gently asked him if he could take me to the harbour, so that I might see the ocean. Whether the ride was twenty minutes or half an hour long, I did not know, nor did I care, but soon the carriage slowed to a stop, and I stepped as elegantly down the steps as I could.

The wind had picked up, making me glad that I had brought the old but still warm cloak, and there was a light, playful pattering of rain that fell teasingly onto my nose and cheeks, making me giggle. I told the coachman in that atrociously artificial accent that I would be going for a walk, and that I would return within the hour, and with this arrangement concluded, set determinedly off down the wooden jetty with my arms wrapped about myself, my eyes scanning my surroundings critically as I searched for the dark man with the worn, faded clothes and smug smile. But the docks were empty, save for a sailor here and there, coiling up ropes or pushing back broken crates.

Someone gave my buttock a slight squeeze that I could easily feel through the skirts and petticoats, and I spun around with a shriek and, certain that Paul had followed me, delivered the culprit a stinging slap.

My admonishment died in my throat as Jack staggered slightly back, a hand rubbing his cheek as he looked resentfully up at me.

"I thought you liked that," he said to me childishly, and I brought my hand, still tingling slightly, to my lips in shock and embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry!" I cried, stepping forward, but he immediately waved me away, silently telling me to stay back. "I… I thought you were someone else."

He gave me a disbelieving look. "Who else would touch you like that?" he queried, and I merely shrugged.

"I know a lot of men," I replied.

"Fair enough," he nodded, cautiously stepping forward. When I didn't make any further attempt to attack him, he hesitantly reached out to push the cloak back behind first one shoulder, then the other, his eyes lazily studying my new clothing.

"Well, well," he drawled, a finger tracing my low neckline. "It's a nice dress; shame about the woman in it…"

"Jack!" I said, smacking his arm playfully. He caught my hand, and pulled me closer; I tilted my head up to look at him, uncharacteristically hesitant creature that he now was, and smiled encouragingly. After a second of waiting, I was the one who had closed the distance between us in a long, gentle kiss devoid of any passion; I'd have called it a friendly peck, had I touched his cheek.

He seemed surer of himself now, his hand releasing my fingers to wrap about my waist instead, yet neither of us attempted to deepen the contact, choosing instead to let our hands and figures run through the other's hair and twitch at clothing.

As I was the one who instigated it, so I was the one who would break it; I turned my head slightly, but made no move to step out of his arms, choosing instead to lean my cheek on his shoulder, my eyes closing as his lips traced my hair.

"This is nice…" I murmured to him, sighing as his other hand reached up to massage my scalp. "But I'll kill you if the rings get caught."

He chuckled, continuing his light, gentle strokes, before pulling away to look down at me. I rolled my eyes in mock exasperation, and reached up to adjust his hat, tilted as it was at a slight angle. "I can't believe you're letting me go," I said to him good-naturedly. "What _would_ you do without me? You can't even dress properly!"

He glared at me. "With each and every passing day, you grow more and more like my mother."

"Oh, I sincerely doubt _that_," I told him, giving him a pinch on his arse to see how _he_ would like it.

The pirate jerked, surprised at the action, before grinning down at me patronisingly. "Down to the last inconsequential detail…" he continued, and I scowled.

"Speaking of mothers," I reminded him, my smile fading slightly as the tone of the conversation grew more serious. "Am I permitted to be Pearl's?"

There was a silence as I waited for his response with bated breath, looking searchingly up into his eyes as they bore into my own. "Well, that all depends…" he drawled, fingers twisting my curls, loosening them slightly.

"On what?" I asked worriedly. His only response was to lean down and press his lips against my own, gently at first. I froze, feeling my heart slowing; Erin had said to me that after the miscarriage-like abortion, I shouldn't be engaging in sexual intercourse for at least a month afterwards (preferably longer), as the uterus needed time to close again; she told me that I could actually damage my chances of future conception if I did so, and judging by the way his tongue was poking insistently at my lips, that was what he wanted. I struggled silently for a moment before deciding to allow him to kiss me, properly this time: but if he tried anything more, I wouldn't hesitate to mention the menstrual cycle; see how keen he'll be _then_.

"Yes," he replied when he eventually pulled away, and I frowned at him before realising that he was talking about Pearl.

"What?" I asked, hoping for confirmation.

"Yes," he said to me, the rain beading his dark lashes. "You can take Pearl under your questionably moral wing."

For a moment, I simply stood there, gratitude having rendered me mute and immobile. The captain smiled, pulling at my clothing slightly, forcing me to move as he slipped his arm about my shoulders and then guided me carefully away from the docks, towards a narrowed street. I felt a rushing surge of safety as I clung to him, an arm wrapping about his own back. The feeling was only strengthened as the hilt of his sword slid to briefly brush my fingers, and I knew for a fact that there really _was_ a pistol in his pocket.

My head tilted to rest on his shoulder as we turned yet another corner, and I subtly glanced back. I had given the driver orders to stand guard at the coach, hoping that when I eventually returned with Pearl wrapped up in my arms, I could simply explain that I had taken pity on this startlingly pretty child I had found on my walk, and I had the means to provide for her, so…

But if he was following me… Well, I knew that I was being paranoid; I knew that he wouldn't disobey direct orders. But well-bred women _were_ an overprotected species.

The rainfall seemed to increase slightly, and Jack stopped suddenly, tugging my cloak closed for me before reaching up behind my head and bringing my cowl up to cover my hair.

"Wouldn't want to have to get you out of those fine clothes of yours so soon now, would we?" he smirked at me, but I merely smiled and wrapped myself around him until he told me that we had to continue.

"How _do_ you know Forrester?" I queried as we quickened our pace. "I mean, he's such a respectable, upstanding member of society, and you're so handsome and desirable; it just doesn't mix."

I felt him chuckle at me.

"Forrester was one of the sailors on the first ship I attacked as a pirate," he explained to me. "I was short of a crew, and so offered some of the men a chance to join mine, and he was one of the few who consented. Turned out he had his eye on a respectable lass, y'see, and was desperate to raise the funds required in order to successfully present himself as a potential suitor and court her."

"How sweet…" I sighed. "I don't suppose that was how _you_ got into this way of life, was it? Didn't think so," I added as he shook his head in panic. "Continue."

"Well, it wasn't very long 'til we'd pillaged and plundered enough funds to part company; he left my crew in Tortuga near a decade ago, wooed and married his lass, an' settled down to live happily ever after." The captain hesitated for a moment. "There was, however, one _slight_ problem."

I raised my eyebrows at this, intrigued. "Oh? How so?"

"Well the lass, you see—woman, rather—Sophie… Sophia? Something like that—_Well_, she was in the care of her odd and eccentric uncle on her father's side, her own pa having long since passed away, and before Tom could go tie the knot with his precious Sarah, he had to prove to this uncle that not only could he provide for his niece, but was also…" And here Jack hesitated, uncertain of how to phrase his next words. I indicated he continue with a gentle nudge of my head. "A God-fearing man of a kind and charitable nature," he settled for. "Now, he and Sadie met up one fine night, and together, decided between the two of them that Forrester would use his ill-gotten gains to…" He trailed off, snickering suddenly, and I impatiently demanded he continue as the wind grew subtly stronger. Eventually, Jack had enough control over his lungs to look at me, darkened eyes dancing with amusement.

"They decided, as Sandy loves children so, to, ah… take in orphaned, abandoned and overall unwanted whelps into their care."

For a moment, I simply stared at him, my mouth hanging open.

"He set up an _orphanage_?" I said incredulously, and Jack nodded, more than a little entertained.

"Women, eh? More trouble than they're worth. So anyway, there he was, successfully building up a collection of bedraggled wretches, and finally, at long last, he had Sally's hand in marriage, and the troublesome Father Dickinson, satisfied that he had successfully carried out his familial duty, left his niece to ne'er be heard from again," he concluded, and there was more than a _slight_ grin as I simply stared at him.

"_Father Dickinson_?" I parroted as he pulled me up towards a building. "_Our_ Father Dickinson?"

Jack simply shrugged his wet shoulders. "It's a small world," was all he said, and then he raised his hand and rapped smartly on the door.

I stared at him, too shocked at this revelation to speak as we waited to be allowed entry.

"Um… Is the orphanage _here_, or…?"

"Oh, no no no," Jack hurried to assure me, tilting his head back to look up at the private property. "No, Mrs. Forrester is overseeing the little ones back in Port Royal, whilst Mr. Forrester travelled all this way with their eldest daughter to stay with a sister-in-law, just as a favour for his old captain.

"And I threatened to tell his wife how he _really_ earned his gold," he added thoughtfully, beaming just as the door swung open to reveal a pale, matronly woman wiping at her reddened eyes. Her gaze showed no recognition, and yet she didn't seem at all surprised to see him.

"You're here to see Thomas, aren't you?" she said, her eyes sliding from the man to me.

"Aye," Jack confirmed cheerfully, apparently oblivious to her quiet pain; I however, noticed this, and frowned, my body stiffening. "May we?" he gestured, and the woman stepped aside. Jack pushed me in first before following suit almost immediately, his body pressing suggestively against my own, and I bit my lip to stop myself from shouting out, "Oh, for God's sake, not _here_!"

Jack lingered in the doorway for a moment longer, slipping off his hat and casually tipping out the water into the rain before stepping in completely, closing the door behind him, his swaying movements accidentally spraying those of us unfortunate enough to stand close to him with cold rainwater, like a tall, clothed, bearded dog. For some reason, I wanted to hit him for his lacking sensitivity.

"Where is she?" he queried politely of the hostess, as though Pearl was the only little girl in the world, and as such, required neither introduction nor description. "Where is the little bint?"

She took a deep, shuddering breath, and pointed at a wooden door down the hall slightly with a shaking hand. There was something in her silence, her trembling, that made even Jack stiffen. I thanked the woman and started in the direction of her finger, but his hand on my arm stopped me, holding me back. Curious, I turned to look up at him.

"Why don't I tell her the happy news?" he said to me, his grin back on his face, and I smiled back, nodding my consent. He stepped pass me, hat in hand as he swaggered towards the door, not even bothering to knock but simply flinging it wide open—

And stopped.

"Jack?"

I stared at him, but he didn't answer; he didn't move—I was certain he'd stopped breathing.

"Jack? What's wrong?" I questioned, moving towards him. Again, no response. My stomach knotted at this, and I moved forward, my cloak leaving a trail of liquid behind me as I stepped forwards. He didn't try to stop me; he didn't try to cover my eyes, nor protect me in any other way.

And what I saw when I craned my neck to look pass him was the most horrifying, horrendous tableau I had ever laid eyes on.

The room was bare, I think, although I couldn't be certain. As a matter of fact, it might have been richly furnished with Persian rugs and tiger skins and precious figurines of fine bone china, but I wouldn't know: I couldn't know. I could only stare at the table in the centre, at the small figure covered by a white sheet.

Slowly, we approached the table, together, stopping beside the raised hulk of wood. I wasn't certain if the woman who had answered the door had followed us, or even if there were any other humans in the room beside Jack and myself, but I found that I didn't much care.

Jack was silent; Jack was still. It was I who reached out to pull the cover away from the face.

If I hadn't been as good as told before hand, I would never have realised that the dead figure was Pearl. Because there was absolutely no way in hell that I would have ever recognised that face.

The were no definite features; only a mass of bloodied flesh and bone. The eyes, once round, giant blue orbs of the most undeniable beauty, had long since been crushed, and where there was meant to have been a nose, only a hideously flat lump of what looked like bloodied bone and cartilage remained. There was no mouth, only a darkened shadow of a hole; and the black hair, that only mere hours ago had been so soft and smooth and silky, had long since been tangled and stained a reddish brown.

I wanted to turn away; I wanted to cover up the sight. And yet I continued to peel the sheet away, staring at the mangled, muddied remains of a slender body and blue dress. I could only get as far as her waist before my grip failed and my fingers loosened, allowing the cloth to fall.

It seemed to be a silent signal for Jack to move; I was aware of his hand, once so strong and assured, now trembling, as he moved towards a tightly curled fist, muddied and pale, but otherwise untouched. His touch was fleeting, seeming to press against the back of that soft little hand with the ghostly strength of a feather, tenderly stroking the cold skin, before he gently slipped the closed fingers open with a sorrow that made me want to weep; and yet I remained frozen.

Pearl's simple necklace of a single black pearl, the one which I had seen all those months ago when I'd first met her, the one which had silently told me her name, fell easily into his hand, as though it belonged there, where it simply rested; a silent black badge that seemed to confirm her identity beyond a shadow of a doubt.

_She was picking it up,_ I realised suddenly. _Her necklace had fallen off, and she was simply just… And then…_

I felt my throat beginning to close as vomit forced its way up it. And yet, I wasn't crying: I couldn't shed a single tear as I simply stared at her.

This was really Pearl: This still, unmoving corpse was really my little Pearl.

But how could this be possible? How did this happen? There were so many questioned that I wanted answered, but I couldn't open my mouth. I couldn't trust myself to speak.

Jack seemed to stumble backwards; or perhaps it had simply been a weak step of half-hearted retreat… But whatever it was, it drew my eyes away from her mutilated face, staring as I was in masochistic fascination. And now I was looking at him, at his widened, wild eyes, his paled skin, the raw emotion that emanated from his every pore.

I tried to reach out, to touch him. I tried to say his name, but nothing came out… Or perhaps my mouth never even opened. Perhaps I just didn't have the will, the strength.

He continued to back away, his eyes never leaving his daughter's face. He didn't even glance at me, even though I stood merely inches away from her, watching over her like a marble statue watches over a grave. And then he was out of the door, whilst I merely stood, rooted to the spot, unable to move, unable to believe… unable to deny.

I don't know how long I waited, staring at the door, staring at our Pearl, staring at everything, staring at nothing, standing still for eternity after eternity after eternity, but suddenly, I was moving: running, walking, stumbling through the door, following him with only instinct to accompany me.

Was Forrester there? Did I see him? Did he try to stop me, to comfort me, to console me? I didn't know, nor did I care: he had long ago ceased to exist for me, fading into the blurred wall of faceless strangers: All I could think of, all I could see, all I knew were Jack and Pearl.

I stumbled down the hall, pushing aside the nameless woman attempting to offer me her condolences, my own hands scrambling at the lock and wrenching it open with an unexpected force I hadn't expected myself capable of, even in full… health, and all but threw myself out into the tempest.

Jack had gone. There was nothing, not even a faint half-shadow along the walls, no trace of him whatsoever left. Nevertheless, I moved in what I'd hoped was the right direction, towards the docks, not expecting to run into him quite as soon as I did.

It was when I'd reached the end of the street, stumbling over the cobblestones, slick and slippery with the steady rain as they were, and turned, that I saw him: a wet, lonely, desolate figure seated on the edge of a small chipped fountain. He was leaning forwards, elbows resting on his knees, face clasped desperately in his hands, apparently impervious to the rain that steadily continued to pour about him. Whether he was crying, or merely silently contemplating his actions, I still do not know—all I could see was that he was as still as a statue: a tall, dark statue, carved from the finest of marble, sat weeping over the grave of his child. Even the powerful wind that blew my wet hair into my face and commanded my skirts to billow about my ankles didn't seem to touch him.

I hesitated, standing about fifteen feet or so away from him, watching him, knowing that I wanted to run into his arms and never leave, yet faltering.

And then the most ridiculous, most gratuitous, most inappropriate of thoughts crossed my mind:

_I love you._

I knew that my words wouldn't bring Pearl back, and I knew that they wouldn't even begin to shift or penetrate the grieving shroud that now surrounded him, black and suffocating. They were just words; simply three little words that I wanted him to hear, yet knew I hadn't the courage to speak aloud.

But that didn't matter; he seemed to have heard me regardless, his head slowly rising, blackened eyes meeting my own. His black kohl had been completely wiped away, though whether by tears or by rain or by his own quivering hand I'd not the slightest idea.

We both looked at one another, neither of us saying a single word, even if only for the simple reason that whatever was said wouldn't be half-audible over the storm.

Slowly, he held out his hand, palm up; a gentle, beckoning gesture. This one simple movement of his right arm unfroze my limbs, and my feet carried me effortlessly towards him of their own accord. Jack stood as I reached him, his arms wrapping about my waist when I'd stumbled, holding me against his soaked form as I tightened my own grip upon his lapels. I felt his hand slide up my back, along my shoulder, my neck, before slowing to rest upon my cheek, tilting my silently crying face—for now, at long last, my tears had decided to finally fall—upwards and covering my lips with his own.

As we kissed, I wasn't certain if the tears I'd tasted were his or mine, but found that it didn't matter whether he was crying or not, for I saw in his unusually expressive eyes that his grief was just great as mine, if not more so.

We stood like that for the longest eternity, but whether it was in actuality minutes or seconds or hours, I didn't know nor care. It was only after the wind had died down to an unfittingly playful breeze and the rain's continuous drumming fell to a light musical pattering upon the treacherous cobblestones that he pulled away, brown eyes a mixture of emotions so diverse that I could not separate one from another, let alone read them.

"You're feverish," he said gently, his hands forcing me to release his coat. Reluctantly, I let go, watching as he slipped the soaked garment off and arranged the faded cloth about my shoulders, and it was only then that I realised that my cloak had somehow disappeared. My thoughts did not dwell on this trifling matter of fashion, and I pulled the garment closer, somewhat surprised at how warm and comforting the vestment felt, considering how its wearer had been standing in the rain for the minimum of an hour.

"Thank you," I murmured, my eyes still on his. He said nothing, merely studying my face, as though he was attempting to imprint every eyelash, every curve, every inch of skin upon his memory, before simply slipping an arm around my shoulders and gently guiding me away, expertly navigating the both of us through the town.

**TO BE CONTINUED**

**AN:** Because "The End" would have been a tad misleading… Yes, there is a sequel, of a sort, creatively titled **How My Perfect Life Was Inverted II**, which is already up, but before you go, do a writer a favour and review? Also, and this may seem to be a somewhat redundant question, but if I wrote a fic that chronicles Pearl's (mis)adventures in purgatory, would anyone bother to read it? I have an idea and a semi-plot, and know exactly how to make it fanfiction-related, even though some may find it offensive, but hey, it's _Pearl_, so… Opinions?


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